


The Supreme Lord of Westeros

by Toyosatomimi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Overlord - Maruyama Kugane & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crossover, First fanfic please forgive, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:28:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 49,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28548648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toyosatomimi/pseuds/Toyosatomimi
Summary: With the Greyjoy Rebellion quenched, the Seven Kingdoms experience relative peace and enjoys the splendour of summer. However, trouble is brewing. Strange whispers are being spread of the resurgence of magic in the halls of the Citadel. Not only that, but the news of Harrenhal's conquest by unknown invaders have caught the attention of the drunken king on the Iron Throne.How will Westeros deal with the self-proclaimed Great Nazarick Empire as they take part in the game of thrones?(First fanfic ever really. Feedback is appreciated! With school, updates are about weekly.)
Comments: 50
Kudos: 102





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo...
> 
> First-ever fanfic. Also, first time ever posting anything in AO3, so formatting may or may not be a little off (this will take time to get used to.)
> 
> Feedback is greatly appreciated btw. Learning as I go along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited on 21.01.21

**Citadel - 295 AC**

The sun shines through the wooden blinds of Archmaester Marwyn's room. Waking up, he sees his clothes already prepared by the Citadel's servants on a table. Stretching, his Valyrian steel chains clatter against his chest. He needs to look presentable today as he will be supervising the birth of a new maester. Just yesterday, the up-and-coming scholar was left in the dark vaults of the Citadel with nothing but the clothes on his back. The man was to stand vigil to the dragonglass candles of Valyria, trying to set them alight.

And again, Marwyn will be disappointed for the new maester will have not lit a single one. Nevertheless, he has to conduct them to the order; no one has lit any candles since the death of the last dragon. He won't expect anyone to do it.

Donning his mask, he grips his Valyrian steel staff and heads out to work. As an Archmaester, even one specialising in the dark arts, Marwyn receives certain privileges unlike those of other maesters. He has his own private quarters, complete with a study, a small collection of books, and a nice view over Oldtown. But Marwyn's not one to stay still; there are still many mysteries out there. His favourite activity this early in the morning is to visit the harbours and talk with people who came across the Narrow Sea. Unlike in Westeros, those in the east are far more open in their magic practices. He'll usually talk with drunkards and sailors regarding tales of maegis and warlocks. Though not all the tales are to be believed, some do corroborate his own findings. He would talk with them hours on end.

But he has no time today; Archmaester duty comes first.

Entering the gates of the Citadel beneath the gaze of great Sphinxes, Marwyn sees that the maesters are moving about quite quickly. _Maybe they're excited about a new maester,_ Marwyn ponders. It is quite an occasion, one worthy of celebration. It's not uncommon to later find those recently conducted indulging in liquor and whores; though against a maester's sacred vows, he can overlook such things. He took part in similar activities back when he was young. The memory brings a grin to his face.

But upon seeing the old maesters running, his nostalgia quickly turns to worry. Marwyn quickens his pace, fearing that the worst may have occurred. Though rare, some aspiring maesters have spilt blood in the effort to light those candles. And with no intervention, they'll be dead in the morning. A tragedy to be sure; one he hopes to not find.

Passing by the great library, he sees the figures of his fellow Archmaesters. Marwyn has never felt close nor friendly to them; they hold disdain towards his research after all. Yet, as professionals, they must begrudgingly respect each other's respective expertise. "Ah, Marwyn the Mage," the one wearing a silver mask calls out. "It's strange for you to be late to this meeting. Getting complacent, aren't we?"

"Save it, Ebrose. Tell me, did the man kill himself?"

Though the Archmaesters give no answer, Marwyn can see them frown beneath their masks. Ebrose gestures him to follow them deeper into the Citadel.

It's clear by this point that they're not taking him to the vaults, but instead the Conclave. Truly, the only time Archmaesters are present in that place is for conducting a new Archmaester or if the Grand Maester has died. _Did Pycelle die? Or..._

"I apologise for the detour, Marwyn," Ebrose speaks, leading the way. "There are birdies everywhere."

Moving away from the bustling crowd, the hall darkens. Their footsteps echoing through the empty halls, Marwyn feels a pit in his stomach. No, this is something else. It's as if he's being watched from above. Something hungry. A dragon.

He shivers, the atmosphere not all that different to the time he visited Qarth's House of Undying. But that was in Essos.

Reaching the great doors of the Conclave, Ebrose steps aside. "I shall give you the honours, Marwyn," the man speaks, tiredness lining his words. "This may be something in your expertise." Raising an eyebrow, Marwyn pulls out his large keys and inserts it into the lock. It opens with a loud clang. Breathing in, he steels himself for whatever he may see.

The hall of the Conclave is brightly lit. Arranged in a semi-circle, all but three seats are filled by Archmaester. Many are deep in thought, others grimacing at the sight before them. Archmaester Perrestan, the current Seneschal, raises his head. Even behind the mask, it's easy to see his frustration. "You're late, Archmaester Marwyn."

Marwyn does not answer for he's focused on the vista before him. Standing in the middle of the room is a whirling black candle holder, forged into the shape of a dragon. And on its four arms are the dragonglass candles, holding above them strange balls of flame. One burns bright white, like a field of snow in the sun. Another in bloody red, and another in deep blue. Lastly, a great whirling void above the last candle, threatening to consume all light.

Marwyn the Mage falls to his knees, tears flowing beneath his mask. "It's here," he whispers, barely audible to the other Archmaesters. "Magic has returned."

**King's Landing - 295 AC**

A seat on the Small Council is not one to be taken lightly. Unlike its name, the council holds one of the greatest responsibilities in the Realm, second only to the king himself. With that, it's not uncommon for the commonfolk to dream of holding such a position; dreams of power and wealth are common within everyone.

Of course, they are just that: dreams. Even Varys the Spymaster, who is not a lord over lands and has the commonfolk's best interest in mind, can't guarantee such a position to them. And perhaps it's for the best; things have not been great for the past few years. With the Greyjoy's rebellion quenched, the king often takes no interest in the matters of the Small Council. And when he does attend them, he brings along his favourite companion: a goblet of arbour gold. It's not uncommon to see him drunk after discussing the matter of finances. And rightfully so; they are millions of dragons in debt, not helped by King Robert's frivolous spendings in tourneys and the like. But life goes on in the Small Council.

And for Varys, it could not be better. Seeing the usurper King drunk atop the Iron Throne pleases him. If the man is to fool around and act like a drunkard through his reign, then Varys' role in bettering the realm will come much easier. With his little birds and plans, nothing will escape the web of the Spider.

Even so, recent news is quite troubling.

Jon Arryn, the King's Hand, gathers up the document before him. As the Hand, he speaks on behalf of King Robert who, while present physically, might not be there in spirit. Although old, the man has a sharp wit that's comparable to the Warden of the West, Tywin Lannister. A problem for Varys. _One that I'll have to take care of myself._

"Before we conclude this meeting," Jon speaks, "Does anyone else have matters to be discussed?"

Varys stands from his seat, righting his gold and purple robe. "If I may speak, Your Grace."

"You may, Spider." There's a trace of venom in his words.

"Thank you." Varys addresses King Robert, who seems to be half asleep. _No doubt from the girls he brought in last night._ "Your grace, it may be of interest for you to know that there are strange happenings in the Riverlands."

The words sway Robert from his stupor. "Geh, speak louder Eunuch. I can barely hear you from my thoughts. What of these happenings?"

"My little birdies have told me of someone who has laid claim to Harrenhal and its surrounding lands." The statement brings shock to everyone present. Well, all but Petyr Baelish. _He has his own birds, after all._ "Alas, I have no birds within the castle, so I have no information regarding who these people are. However," he pulls out a parchment from his sleeve, "they are prideful enough to erect a flag at the tallest tower. If you would..." Handing the parchment to Petyr, the Master of Coins stares at the image with an amused look. He hands it to Jon, earning a frown, and then passes it over to King Robert atop the Iron Throne. Upon looking at the picture, he snorts and laughs.

"Spider," he chuckles, "did you draw this?"

"No your grace."

"Good, because this is a shit drawing!" Robert holds out the image for all to see. On the parchment is the outline of a flag. But the shape of the emblem itself is all squiggles and lines with no real discernible shape. "Tell me, Lord Varys, did you not train your birds to draw?"

"I did not your grace," Varys answers with a slight bow. "However, I'm confident in what my little birds tell me."

"Heh, is that so..." Robert examines the drawing closely, rubbing his beard. "Then what in the Seven Hells could this be? I haven't seen a symbol like this before. All those lines look like-" He cuts himself off as a sudden realisation dawns upon him. He grits his teeth and crumples the paper in his hand. "The damned squids!" he bellows. All flinch at his shout. "I should have known. Those blasted Greyjoys will not quit until they have conquered and pillaged everything in my Realm. Should have killed them off when I had the chance!"

"Your grace," Varys smiles, "I don't believe it's the Ironborns."

Robert looks incredulous and red-faced. "What do you mean? Does this," he shakes the parchment at them, "not look like a squid to you!?"

"The Ironborn suffered a significant loss during their rebellion, your grace," Stannis cuts short his brother's shouts. "Most of their ships are beneath the waves, in the company of their Drowned God. The same is true for their warriors. There's no logic in attacking with such numbers, knowing the consequences from just a few years ago."

With this, Robert calms down and takes a sip from his goblet. His brother sighs; Varys reckons that Stannis is used to these kinds of outbursts.

"I concur," Jon adds. "It would be exceedingly stupid for the Ironborn to betray the Iron Throne again. Now, if I may ask Lord Varys, do you have any additional information regarding these... invaders? Especially with the present state of Lady Shella Whent, the current owner of Harrenhal?"

Varys shakes his head. "No ravens have been sent from Harrenhal, your grace. I fear the worst has befallen House Whent." The solemn words bring silence to the Small Council. A small house though it may be, House Whent is still a member of the Realm and vassals to the Iron Throne. "Furthermore," he continues, "there have been no words from the invaders either. No declarations other than the flag. From what my whispers told me, House Roote of Harroway took it upon themselves to send a hundred men to the castle. None have returned."

There's a grave look on the king's face. Varys can tell he's serious as Robert seems to forget about his goblet of wine. "Jon," he commands, "send a raven. Tell the Tullies to get off of their sorry asses and go to Harrenhal with an army of some kind. It's clear that whoever these people are, they have no respect for Westerosi lords. Let the Lord Paramount of the Trident show them who rules these lands."

"Yes, your grace."

"And you Spider," he turns to Varys, "get your fucking birds in there and tell me what's happening, you hear? We're already dealing with the Targaryens across the sea. I don't want another trouble arising from some shitty hallowed castle."

Varys takes a deep bow. "Yes, your grace."

"Is there anything else you want to add, Lord Varys?" Jon asks.

Varys contemplates for a moment. He remembers the many whispers he received in the past two weeks. The rumours in the Citadel. The flag on Harrenhal. The strange apparitions appearing in the surrounding lands bearing great shields. The strange flying creatures. The quick and panicked scrawls of the whispers. The many claiming death has come upon Westeros. "Nothing comes to mind, Lord Jon. That is all I have to say."

"Great," Robert says as he stands up from the Throne and takes a sip from his goblet. "Then this meeting is finished. Get to your tasks."


	2. The Cold Winds of the South - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hearing news of Harrenhal, Lord Paramount Hoster Tully has sent his brother, Ser Brynden "Blackfish" Tully, with an army of four thousand men to find out what's happening within the castle.

**Riverlands - 295 AC**

"Ser, a raven from King's Landing has arrived. He's asking us to mobilise our forces."

"A bit too late for that, isn't it?"

"Aye, it might be so."

Sitting inside his decorated tent, Ser Brynden "Blackfish" Tully reviews the map before him. South-East of the army encampment is the dreaded castle Harrenhal, standing tall in all of its ruinous glory. So huge it is that Blackfish does not need far-eyes to see the spires of the tallest tower, Kingspyre Tower. He can even see from here the massive flag affixed to the top, bearing the insignia of the invaders. Upon closer inspection with the far-eye, he can see silhouettes of soldiers atop the battlements. What looks like large eagles seem to be soaring around the tower, acting perhaps as patrol for the invaders. _I have heard tales of Wildling wargs using those animals and seeing through their eyes. I hope that's not their use._

Right now, a total of four thousand soldiers are waiting in the encampment, ready to deploy. The news of House Roote's missing soldiers travels fast in the Riverlands. This allowed the Lord Paramount of the Trident, Hoster Tully, to quickly gather his forces from his many vassals. Leading the army and acting on his brother's behalf is Blackfish himself; the Lord Paramount is too ill to participate in the campaign directly. The master-at-arms, Ser Desmond Grell from House Tully, has come to help as well. Lord Tytos Blackwood of Raventree Hall has brought the most soldiers for the cause, with Ser Stevron Frey of the Twins leading behind.

"Ser Desmond, has there been news of our scouts?" Blackfish had sent a hundred fast men on horseback with crossbows and spears to survey the castle. It would've been enough to survive anything the invaders might offer, and yet...

"None, Ser. It's sundown so they should have been back a few hours ago."

"I see..." _Then I must assume the worst has befallen them._ Such grave news gives him no comfort. They know almost nothing of the invaders other than their flag. _That blasted flag._ When they had arrived in view of the castle, they assumed the shape to be that of the Greyjoy's kraken. But upon closer inspection, that's not the case. The centrepiece looks to be a sword decorated with goat horns, while the rest he's unable to discern. He knows no house or group bearing that symbol. "Ser Desmond, call the other lords to my tent. We will have much to discuss."

"Yes, Ser."

Waiting for the others, Blackfish pours himself a cup of brandy. The past week of travel has been quite strange. They tried gathering any information regarding the invaders from nearby settlements and locals. However, none have claimed to have seen them. The most they could glean out of the terrified locals are stories of demons wandering the woods and rivers around Harrenhal. _I know people have regarded the castle as cursed, but to that extent, huh?_

The tent flaps open and the lords enter. A young boy also follows them. _A child? Ah, it must be Lord Tytos' heir, Brynden Blackwood. Two Bryndens in a tent..._ Blackfish greets them, leading them over to the map of Harrenhal. "I thank you for coming at such a short notice," he begins. "But due to recent events, I believe it's best for us to plan it out now."

"So they've failed to return?"

"I'm afraid so, Lord Tytos. As such, we are limited from what we can observe using our far-eyes. So," Blackfish points to the largest tower, "we observed that soldiers are placed along the battlements of the tower. I don't know whether the scorpions along the walls are still functional, but I think it's best to avoid it at all cost."

Tytos traces his finger along the wall of Harrenhal before stopping on the northern section. "Here. If I remember correctly, Aegon the Conqueror's Balerion had blown down this section of the walls. As I'm confident it hasn't been fixed since, our escalades are able to scale the wall easily."

"To think we have to thank the Targaryens for this." Though this brings a laugh to some, more are still bitter regarding the circumstances. Harrenhal was the place where it all happened: the Great Tourney where Rhaegar named Lyanna Stark his Queen of Love and Beauty. The end of the Targaryen dynasty once and for all. Being back here again feels so... Wrong. _Perhaps fate is playing us all like fools._

"While I do agree, Lord Tytos, I doubt it would be easy. First, it should be assumed that the enemy has set up defences there as they see the same weakness as well. Second, we know not the numbers patrolling the woods; but they are enough to take down a hundred men on horseback."

All the men fall into deep thought, examining the map. If the enemy forces are comparable to the Riverlands' own, then they may need to request reinforcements for the battle of attrition. "...Ser Brynden, may I know what the time is?"

Blackfish peers out his tent. Though it's dark, the soldiers have lit up bonfires and torches around the encampment. He can see the shadows of children running in the dark. _Who in their right mind brings children to- Nevermind._ "From the stars, I reckon about an hour past sundown."

"I see," Tytos rubs his black beard. "Our best option then is to rest early and have a night attack." He moves a soldier piece along the map, into the wooded areas near Harrenhal. "Two hours after midnight, we shall head eastwards to the woods north of Harrenhal. Ser Blackfish and Frey shall lead the men through the woods while I and the other lords will bring siege equipments around it. We should reach the broken wall an hour before dawn. Two if we're quick."

_A night attack... That could work. Catch the invaders by surprise._

"How about torches?" the young Brynden Blackwood pipes up.

Though Ser Stevron laughs at the boy's statement, his father frowns at him. "If we use torches, boy, then we will be nothing more than moving targets. No, this attack will be done in the cover of night. Please think a little before making such statements, Brynden."

"Yes father," the boy replies sadly, slinking back behind the group.

"Oh, don't be so tough on the boy, Lord Tytos. He's not more than a Summer Child," Stevron jests.

Tytos sighs. "I understand that. However, it's never too early for the boy to learn about war. And there's nowhere better to do it than to actually participate in it. He's going to see the true nature of strategies. This," he points at the map, "is nothing more than a simple assault. This skirmish will be the first step in his learning."

"I suppose so, Lord Tytos," Stevron replies. He looks at the boy and ruffles his hair. "This is going to be your first battle, isn't it? Quite exciting to be with your father."

"Your son," Blackfish rubs his beard, "I'm sure he will not be with you at the front lines. Am I correct?"

"Of course not," Tytos scoffs. "He may be able to defend himself, but he's still green in experience. No, he will be in the rear with the engineers; safe from any stray arrows and scorpion bolts. Can't have my heir die in his first battle, that would be an embarrassment!" The men laugh and take a drink of some wine. "Come all, we should rest soon if we're to wake up later."

Before any could make a move, they hear running and clamour from outside the tent. "What the hell is happening out there?"

"I'll go take a look," offers Desmond, who heads out the tent. Shadows run across the tarp from torchlight. Then, they hear screaming.

All draw their swords, looking at each other nervously. _Have we been ambushed?_ "Everybody head out, come on!" Blackfish shouts, leading all the lords. He can see Tytos staying behind, talking to his fearful son.

_Die in his first battle..._

Upon stepping foot outside, all Blackfish sees are the soldiers running about. He can't spot enemy combatants among them. With that, he roughly grabs one of the frantic soldiers, turning him around to face him. "What is going on!?"

"S-Ser Blackfish Ser," the soldier stutters. "The fires, the torches and bonfires, they're all going out!"

"What?"

"It's true Ser! Strange shadows are moving about and-"

"Are you telling me you're all scared of the dark? What a bunch of fucking cravens!" He shoves the soldier to the ground and looks angrily at the unruly men around him. _What are they, a bunch of babes in their mother's arms? Didn't I train them to be better than this!?_ "You lot, stop running like a bunch of fucking chickens! Prepare your arms and make formations around this hill! Now, GO!" With that command, soldiers begin forming ranks and move in an orderly fashion. Even so, Blackfish can still see the fear in their eyes.

Other lords follow suit, barking orders at their men. "I will not have my house name sullied by cowardice," he can hear one shouts. "Cravens will be at the front lines," shouts another. "Light up the fucking torches!"

A formation slowly builds itself upon the foot of the hill. Spears and shields at hand, they're all ready for an attack. Paramours and non-combatants have gathered themselves on the top of the hill, hiding in and around Blackfish's tent. Tytos' son hides there as well.

That's when Blackfish notices it. A blackness approaches a bonfire in the encampment. It then swallows the flames whole, snuffing it out like candlelight. He pulls out his far-eye and tries to identify the soldiers putting them out. Alas, he sees nothing but shadows. The fires simply die.

One by one the darkness encroaches the hill. Torches held by soldiers die out; Blackfish sees a shadowy hand, but nothing more. Before long, all that is left is the light from the tent. And when that goes out, all four thousand are engulfed in darkness. Blackfish grips his sword, ready for an attack.

But there's nothing.

It's quiet now. The winds are not blowing, and the soldiers are not in the mood for chattering. Not a peep from insects and birds. The clouds have blocked the moon, blinding them all to the land before them. He can hear Tytos whisper some prayer, readying his mace.

Blackfish hears his own heartbeat, pounding into his ears. Anxious of what's to come. Then, a sudden chill goes through his entire body. No, not only him, but to everyone else as well. Knights and soldiers clatter in fear, as if hit by a cold gale; but there is no wind. A pit in his stomach, he grits his teeth, expecting the worst.

A sudden bright light causes him to flinch. Opening his eyes, a pair of torches appear before them. And then another, and another, and another. Before long, a pathway is created leading from the hill and towards Harrenhal. He looks nervously at Tytos; those torches are not theirs.

He spots some movement. Forming out of the inky blackness of the night, a group of armoured soldiers step into the light. Following behind them is an entourage of riders carrying banners. Even from this distance Blackfish recognises the emblem of Harrenhal's invaders. Next to appear is a carriage pulled by a couple of horses. Closing off the group is another set of riders.

His soldiers murmur and chatter as the group approaches. "Hold your positions," he orders. That quiets them down.

"Blackfish, I don't think you can swim out of this trouble anytime soon," Stevron comments, brandishing his sword.

"I'll cross that bridge when I get there, Frey." The reply brought out a snort from the man.

"I would prefer if you two focus on the problem at hand," Tytos cuts in. "Ser Blackfish, do any of these men look like Wildlings to you? Because it seems like we have a much bigger problem."

The answer to that is of course not. No Wildlings, however noble and powerful they claim to be, will appear in such a way. The carriage is a proof of that.

Upon reaching the front line, just beyond the spears' reach, the strange soldiers and riders part to make way for the carriage. The design is quite royal and opulent: the black wood blends with the night, accentuating the gold highlights of its curls and wheels. It looks to have been made with such fine craftsmanship it seems extremely odd to drive it over some muddy ground. _To bring it all this way for a conquest of a castle, I'm guessing they're expecting it to be permanent then?_

Blackfish frowns at the thought. Not only relinquishing the land to those invaders will be an insult to Lady Shella Whent, but also to his brother the Lord Paramount and to the Iron Throne itself. The soldiers at the front line are getting more anxious, fidgeting with their spears, as if trying to break into a fight or run. Rather than risking it, Blackfish orders his soldiers to make way for him, Tytos, and Stevron towards the invaders.

Now standing before the carriage, he can see the source of his men's fears. The soldiers leading the carriage are covered head to toe with black plate armour. Sharp and horrid spikes decorate them like those of a manticore. They stand tall, wielding strange wavy blades and tower shields. But the most disconcerting feature is their faces.

"They're not human, are they?" Stevron whispers.

Blackfish has no answer to this. The soldiers' faces are sunken and ghoul-like. No, they look to be just that: skulls. Human skulls wearing horned helmets, bearing sharp teeth and hissing breaths. Though he sees no eyes, he can feel them staring at him. Glaring at his men with hatred. Hatred towards him, towards his soldiers, towards everything that lives in this world. His knees feel weak. For the first time in a long while, Brynden Tully fears death.

The horses are the same, for they appear to be full skeletons. Yet, there is a strange form around them, as if shrouded by a sickly glowing green mist. Their riders also carry the ghostly nature of their steed, skeletal in appearance.

"I see why the commonfolk call them demons," Tytos says with shaky breath.

Not wanting to show weakness, Blackfish stands his ground and calls out to the carriage. "In the name of Hoster Tully the Lord Paramount of the Trident and King Robert Baratheon of the Iron Throne, identify yourselves!"

No answer.

He demands for an audience again to the same result. "Is this some sort of parlay, or are they pulling us into a trap?" he whispers to Tytos.

Before he can answer, one of the skull soldiers approaches the carriage door and opens it.

The beauty inside stuns them to silence. Stepping out of the carriage is a young girl dressed in red and black. Her skirt seems to puff into a ball, decorated with many frills and laces. Though he doesn't recognise the style, he understands that it must have taken tailors and seamstresses many gruelling hours to complete. From the graceful way she carries herself, she must be some noble's daughter. She smiles sweetly at them and curtsies. "Good evening gentlemen. My name is Shalltear Bloodfallen of the Great Nazarick Empire, an eternal servant to the Supreme Being Ainz Ooal Gown."

Blackfish clears his throat. "I'm Ser Brynden of House Tully, brother of Lord Paramount of Trident Hoster Tully. I shall be speaking on his behalf. You say that you hail from the Nazarick Empire. Pray tell, where is that?" That name does not ring a bell in his mind. If it is an empire, then surely the maesters at the Citadel are at least aware of it.

"I see that you are unfamiliar with it," she answers with a giggle. "You see, the land you're standing on _is_ the Nazarick Empire."

Blackfish feels his fury building. Who is this person to claim land that is not rightfully theirs? This Ainz Ooal Gown? And the fact that the invaders have sent a little girl to meet them is quite insulting to Blackfish, as if saying they are unworthy of his time.

He glares at the little girl, who simply smiles back. She looks quite young and beautiful, though quite pale in her skin. But her silver hair reminds him of the Targaryens and those with Valyrian roots. Her red eyes accentuate all this, as if looking into a rippling pool of blood. So deep and endless that-

"This land does not belong to you invaders!" Tytos bellows, breaking Blackfish from his trance. For a younger man, his voice is deep and loud. "Harrenhal and its land are in the hands of the late House Whent, vassals to Lord Paramount Hoster Tully and King Robert Baratheon, first of his name. You will not sully their names by having your men occupy our realm!"

The proclamation is met with cheers and shouts by the soldiers. Chants of "Tully" and "Blackwood" ring through the encampment. But through all this clamour, the girl does not budge. If anything, she is smirking at them.

Blackfish raises his hand to calm the soldiers. "My men are more than eager to bring your ruler to his knees. The same can be said for the lords present with me. If you want to parlay, I hope you offer your fealty. Else, your blood shall spill on these grounds."

The girl breaks her smirk into a boisterous laugh, surprising Brynden and his fellow lords. _Who laughs like that in the face of death? Does she think this is all a joke?_ The skull soldiers around her stay motionless. She wipes the tears from her eyes, smiling. "Oh, Ser Brynden, Such a foolish display amuses me. Really, do you expect your soldiers to win?"

For a moment, Blackfish sees not a smile but the toothy grin of a beast. Full of malice and thirst for blood. A feeling of doubt bubbles in his head: _what if she's right? What did happen to the scouts I sent?_ But this all fades back as the girl takes on a more cheery tone. "Oh, I'm just joking, Ser Brynden. After all, it seems that you have made a misunderstanding."

"What do you mean by 'misunderstanding'?"

"Well, Lords and Sers of the Riverlands, we did not kill your Lady of Whent. Our ruler, in his amazing grace and mercy, has made her swear fealty to Ainz Ooal Gown and become his vassal. As such," she gestures towards the carriage, "when he has heard of your arrival, he wishes to bring you into discussion regarding his Empire within this continent of Westeros. I suggest that you accept his wishes."

Blackfish is reluctant to answer. He's confused after all; he came to this region expecting a battle and taking back Harrenhal. Not the invaders considering diplomacy. _Is this truly an offer, or is it a threat?_

"What if we refuse?" asks Stevron.

"Then none of you will see daylight."

_Now that's a threat._

Tytos scowls at her answer; his son is still in the tent after all. The heir of Raventree Hall. Blackfish is confident of their chances, owing to their perhaps superior numbers. However, his past experiences say otherwise. The Ninepenny Kings and Robert's Rebellion; both were some rabble-rouser aiming to overthrow the crown. Small as they may be, they are still a threat. Though the merchants lost, a Baratheon is now on the Iron Throne.

The enemy is still unknown. _The shadows..._

With a heavy heart, Blackfish sheathes his sword. _This is for the future of the Realm._ "I shall take your ruler's offer for a discussion," Blackfish answers to the dismay of his fellow lords. "However, I would like our conditions to be met."

The girl smiles.

_By the Seven, let it not be a trap._

**Harrenhal - 295 AC**

"This is a trap, Blackfish. I can sense it," Tytos whispers.

"Lord Tytos, do please calm down," Blackfish yawns. "There's no need to be so active this early in the morning."

Tytos groans and rides back to his regiment.

Blackfish couldn't sleep well last night; everyone was high-strung and on alert due to the invaders' presence. Every lord he talked to feared a night attack. Luckily, it never came.

As the group march through the woods, Blackfish wonders if the conditions he had laid out could've been more demanding. The first was to bring five hundred men with Tytos and Stevron as his company to Harrenhal. This ensures their safety in case that this is all a trap. She accepted the condition. The second was to have the travel done by sunrise and for them to return by sundown, allowing his men to rest and to closely observe those strange skull knights. She agreed to that as well. Last but not least, he demanded her to stay at the encampment through the night. He said to her that it was for communications sake, but Blackfish planned to use her as a hostage if things go down. Even to this, she agreed.

 _I thought that she would be against the idea,_ he wonders as he looks upon the carriage in front of him. Of course, the lords have planned things in secret as well. First, they already sent a raven back to Riverrun about their predicament. Next is that if Blackfish and his company have not returned by sundown, a raven will be sent calling for reinforcements.

He sees Desmond ride up to him from the front of the group. "Ser Brynden, we're approaching Harrenhal."

"What's the condition?"

"We're still unsure, Ser. Some of the men carry colours of House Whent, but most of them are those... Things." Blackfish can see Desmond's unease. Those skull knights and riders guarded the carriage throughout the night. Asking his soldiers who were on guard duty, their observations are quite perplexing: the things did not move at all. They stood still like statues, spectres of death in their camp. _Do they never sleep?_

Though he doesn't know what they are, there can only be one explanation for their existence: the dark arts. Blackfish shudders at the thought. He had never seen anything connected to magic, and doubts the alchemists' words regarding wildfire's magical nature. Yet, he has heard of them before; whether it be from fairy tales of greenseers or sellswords from Essos telling tales of maegis, it's clear that something exists out there. Something strange and unknowable. _Perhaps that's where these invaders have come from, across the Narrow Sea. But why have they come this far west?_

All thought is blown away once they exit the woods. He visited the castle once during the Great Tourney all those years ago, and even now he's still in awe. Great walls stretch like great stone curtains over the land, towering above them. Just the outer ones would exceed most of Riverrun's towers. Scorpions dot its ramparts, looking more like their namesakes on the huge structure. But what truly catches his eyes are the great and ruined towers of Harrenhal, clawing at the sky. They engulf the land in shadow, bringing cold chills in the summer. _It took dragons to bring down the castle..._

Skull knights open the doors of the massive gatehouse. Passing through, he sees dozens upon dozens of murder-holes above them. _Perfect time to strike..._ He can see the vast expanse of the castle ruins upon entering its yard. Most of the rubble has been there since Aegon the Conqueror's time. Upon the ruined towers, he sees figures carrying rocks and slabs to the top. "It seems that these invaders care more for Harrenhal than the Lord Paramount," Stevron jests. _He may be a Frey, but he's much better to talk with than his father._ Looking around, he can see some of the human guards are of House Whent. _They didn't kill all of them, why is that?_

As the carriage moves deeper, a group of skull knights halt Blackfish and company in their tracks. The men disembark from their horses. As Tytos and Stevron watch the carriage move away, another group of those skull knights approaches. _It seems that they bring company._

In the centre of the group are two women. One looks to be an old lady, short and walking with a cane. She wears a scarf that covers her white hair, even in the heat of summer. Though she looks frail, there's still life in her eyes. He recognises her as Lady Shella Whent, the last of her line. _She survived, so the girl did not lie then._

But the other woman he does not recognise. From the casual way she walks, she doesn't look to be one of Shella's servants. She is quite beautiful in appearance, with her dark skin and long, braided red hair; it looks to have been dyed in blood. Her strange black and white dress leaves a large slit across the side, revealing her legs. _Is she perhaps from the Summer Islands? Isn't that also in the east?_

"Lady Shella," Blackfish greets her. "It's great to see you in good health."

"Thank you Ser Brynden," the head of House Whent bows. "It's simply a shame that we have to meet under such strange circumstances. I hope we can discuss the nature of our situation with his grace."

"His grace... Ah, I see." He eyes the other woman. She's leaning on the skull knight's tower shield and watching them talk. _No doubt acting as the ruler's eyes and ears._ He notes the strange weapon strapped to her back. "So, your house has sworn fealty to this Ainz Ooal Gown." Betrayal of the Lord Paramount is not something to be taken lightly.

"Yes it has, Ser Brynden. I have broken the trust of Lord Hoster Tully, but you must understand..." Her words trail off as she looks at the red-haired woman.

"Pardon me, may I know your name?" he asks.

"Wha- Oh yeah! Sorry, how rude of me~!" She stands up straight before introducing herself. "Name's Lupusregina Beta, one of the Pleiades Six Stars maids in service to his majesty Ainz Ooal Gown. Nice to meet you Ser Blackfish~" Her cheery tone is more suited to greeting friends than a group of frustrated nobles.

"A maid?"

"Yep. Lord Ainz trusted me to take care of matters with Lady Shella here regarding the castle. 'Tidy up the place,' he said. But really though," she smirks at the terrified Whent, "as a maid, I'm really disappointed with your upkeep of the castle. Dust, dirt, and weed everywhere. You're just making my work that much harder. I guess that's what you get for not cleaning for decades."

"If possible, Lady Lupusregina, I would like to have a private audience with Lady Shella here. We have much to catch up on."

"Hmmm, should I~?" The woman puts a finger to her lip and furrows her brow, as if in deep thought. Then she beams a smile at them. "Of course you can! Just stay out of trouble, you hear?"

"Thank you, Lady Lupusregina," Shella bows to her before leaving the scene. Blackfish quickly follows. As they walk past some buildings, he sees the maid talking to Tytos and Stevron, much to their chagrin.

The two climb up one of the shorter towers; shields and emblems of House Whent decorate the walls. He notices that some are splattered with dry blood. _What happened here?_ Shella pulls out a ring of keys and unlocks one of the rooms. Upon entering, it seems to be a servant quarters. Locking the door, she sighs from relief.

"Make the explanation quick, Lady Shella," he sits on a rickety chair. "I have a meeting with Harrenhal's ruler soon."

"Yes, I suppose that thing is now the ruler of this castle, isn't it?"

_Thing?_

Shella sits on the bed. It's dark here for there are no windows, but that's not needed at the moment. She closes her eyes before speaking. "It was a month ago that things had gone awry. It was Ser Willas I think that went to the Godswood to pray. But when he went there," she falters before continuing to speak, "at the centre of the Godswood is a walled-off tomb. The heart tree was cut down."

Shella grinds her teeth. Though Blackfish follows the Faith, he can sympathise with her plight; the destruction of a place of worship is not an easy thing to come to terms with. After taking a deep breath, she continues. "And so, I sent thirty of my best knights to that blasted tomb to take care of the invaders. However, only one managed to return, screaming about how we should run away. Being a Whent, I stood my ground. I called up guards to set up on the walls of the Godswood, preventing anyone from exiting the damn place." She sighs. "I should have heeded the knight's message.

"That night, I was awoken by a horrible screech. I don't know from what but when I looked out my window, I saw the Wailing Tower burning. Then I heard my servants screaming. I went out of my room and..." Shella begins shaking, clutching the bedsheets. Blackfish offers her his wineskin but she declines. "Pia... Pia came running into my arms, bleeding and screaming. I saw my knights fighting against strange beasts. Others came to help and managed to fend them off, but..." Shivering, she takes the wine and drinks about half of it before handing it back to him. "I'm sorry."

"Take your time, Lady Shella."

"Yes. Well, leading those animals, I saw a knight dressed in a strange red armour. Called herself Shalltear Bloodfallen. She... She cut through my men, armour and all, and butchered the servants. Laughed at us. The corpses, they- Gods, I..." She whimpers, tear falling from her eyes. "I begged her. Begged her to spare us. She demanded that we kneel and swear to that Ainz Ooal Gown. Pia, that girl, refused and... So I knelt. I relinquished all my rights and lands and title to Ainz Ooal Gown. Not another man slain, Ser Blackfish. It was the only way."

Blackfish finishes his wineskin; after hearing all of that, he feels like he needs one. There are questions he wants to ask, but he only has time for a few now. "You know, Lady Shalltear was sent as an envoy to my forces. She's just a petite lady in a dress, and you're telling me she commanded all those animals for an attack?"

"I may be old but I'm not a fool, Blackfish. She's far more powerful than she looks." Shella leans back on the bed, sighing wistfully. "I dare say stronger than Ser Oswell."

"Ser Oswell of the Kingsguard? Now that's just reaching."

"You haven't seen her fight, Ser Blackfish. She could bind the shadows to do her biddings."

 _Shadows... Then she's the one who turned out all of the fires. And if Lady Shella is not exaggerating, then if we refused last night..._ "What of Roote's men that were sent here? My scouts? I don't see them among the men in the yard."

"I... Don't know. This is the first time I've heard that people tried to contact us."

"Any bodies?"

"They won't even let us bury our own," she spits at the floor. "I pray for those men: yours and Roote's."

From here, Blackfish still lacks the detailed description of the Empire's forces. But at least it's clear to him that the Empire has shadowbinders and mages in their ranks. He leans forwards, keeping his voice quiet. "You know, the Crown will be unhappy when hearing of your betrayal. Even my brother, in all the patience and love he has, may come to resent you. So I want you to answer me this: do you, in your heart, truly believe in the fealty you've taken to this invader?" Her answer will decide on how he should proceed in the future. If yes, then she's a lost cause. But if not, then he might be able to utilise her and bargain with his brother.

"...When I saw what she did to my Pia, I've sworn in my heart right then and there. I may bow my head to those monsters, but my honour and heart still lie in the Realm of Men."

Satisfied, Blackfish clasps back his wineskin. "I see. Then we can work with this."

"Yup, can work with it~"

Blackfish draws his sword and turns to the source of the voice. Emerging from the shadows is the maid from before. She grins at them. _Shit, how did I not see her enter?_ "What do you want, wench!?"

"'Wench'? How rude~" she chuckles. "I'm just here to tell you that Lord Ainz seeks an audience with you. And that means you as well, our dear Shella of Whent. Better not disappoint!" With that, the maid exits through the door. _Wasn't it locked before?_

The two look at each other nervously before following the woman. They exit the tower and walk towards the massive main courtyard. He sees Stevron and Tytos waiting, in the company of those skull knights. Shella looks with a pained expression at one of those things. He takes note of it, perhaps it will be useful in the future.

They march towards the gate of the Godswood, protected by more of those skull knights. He sees no men of House Whent around here. Upon entering, he's in awe at the size. Being Harrenhal, the Godswood is far larger than any other ones in the realm. So massive in fact that it could fit the entirety of Riverrun within. As they pass old oaks and redwoods, they reach its centre. Where a large heart tree once stood now is cordoned off by large, white walls. Though he spots several trees within the area, none have the signature white bark and red leaves of a weirwood.

The maid leads them to a small gateway. Once they enter, Stevron can't help but to let out a whistle. The area does look like an abandoned graveyard, with scattered tombstones and broken statues littering the grounds. However, it is far too well maintained: the grass they walk on is trimmed and the statues are all polished. He feels like the appearance is nothing but a mummer's farce, like props for a play.

At the centre is a large, white structure supported by marble pillars. Carved statues decorate its walls, making it closer to a temple rather than a catacomb. Entering it, the lords spot something odd at its end. In front of a stone casket is a blob of darkness, as if cut out from the night itself. "Magic," Stevron hisses.

They all witness the figure of Shalltear Bloodfallen appear from within it, smiling. "I welcome you, Lords and Lady of the Riverlands, to the Great Tomb of Nazarick."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated on February 2 2021


	3. The Cold Winds of the South - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In trying to create good relations between the two nations, Momonga plans to impress his guests.

**Nazarick - 295 AC**

_This... Did not go according to plan._

Momonga sits upon his throne, knowing that in a few more minutes he will be meeting with delegates of the Iron Throne. Local lords, ones he knows nothing about from a land he has never heard of. Nervous, he taps his bony fingers against the armrest. He's used to doing important meetings in the corporate world. But this is not some high-ranking executives, no, these people are politicians.

_Well, there might not be much difference there. Man, how did it all come to this?_

It feels like just yesterday he was sitting in Yggdrasil, waiting for the game timer to reach zero and the servers to shut down. And yet, instead of his dingy looking apartment, he found himself in a strange world. When he realised something was wrong, he sent the now sentient Pleiades to scout their surroundings. They informed him that the Great Tomb of Nazarick now resides in some castle's grounds, not the oh-so-familiar swamps of Yggdrasil. When he heard this, he was tempted to fly out and see for himself.

So, guarded by Demiurge, the two leapt into the night sky. Airborne, he saw the broken ruins of the castle below him, towering over the land. It reminded him of old dungeons in Yggdrasil, except this one is far more real. Far more imposing, as if plucked from a fairy tale. As they flew further, he felt the coldness of the night sky. _Strange,_ he thought at the time, _since I'm nothing more than a skeleton now._ Breaking through the clouds, his jaw dropped at the world before him. Green land below and a sea of stars above. To his right a great range of mountains, and to his left some plains and forest, carved out by the tracks of rivers. He could see other castles in the lands beyond. The wilderness seemed untouched by man, beautiful.

He had let out a hearty laugh then, truly believing that he's not in his world nor the game Yggdrasil anymore.

"Has Shalltear received our guests?" he asks Albedo, the Guardian Overseer standing to his right.

"Yes, the humans will arrive here shortly," she answers.

Momonga sighs, then lets out a chuckle. _What a thing for a skeleton to sigh..._ After coming here, it took him a while to realise that he was an undead. Truly undead. Even the rising nervousness inside him was quenched by some unknown force. The sign of his undead nature working. Being skeletal seems to be uncommon in this world; the previous owner of the castle nearly keeled over in horror when she saw him. _I should be expecting that kind of reaction then from my guests... Not ideal for negotiations, but I can use that to my advantage._

One of the main things he sought upon coming to this world is information: everything on the who, what, and where. However, the old woman wasn't able to provide much. Turns out, when Shalltear had conducted the counter-attack, she burnt down much of the tower containing the castle's library and maester, a sort of scholar. He wanted to scold her but decided against it: she was acting on his orders, after all. Neither of them knew the contents of the tower. But what he could glean from the inhabitants formed a picture of the world in his head, and he finds it quite... Troubling. Supported by his scouts' expeditions, the world seems to be medieval in nature. No modern technology at all, at least the ones he's used to. And regarding magic, they seem to have either forgotten about it or prosecuted it.

That counter-attack also led to a different misunderstanding: Momonga's name. Shalltear shouted "Glory for Ainz Ooal Gown" at the top of her lungs during the attack. Though that is the guild's name, Shella Whent had mistaken it for HIS name. Though it was a simple mistake that he wanted to correct, Demiurge praised him for his cunning in choosing that name. Momonga doesn't understand it at all. But for his appearances as an undead overlord, he kept it. There would be nothing worse than having the Guardians realise that he's nothing more than a corporate peon in the real world.

 _No!_ Momonga yells to himself. _This_ is _the real world, or at least another version of it. Suzuki Satoru is in the past; I have to shed that life to live on. I'm Momonga, Ainz Ooal Gown,_ he assures himself, _the ruler of the Great Nazarick Empire. I have to act accordingly. I have prepared everything in advance: scripts, documents, props, everything should be fine. No worse than a board meeting._

...

Before he could doubt himself even more, Albedo informs him that the guests are on their way to the throne room.

With that, Ainz Ooal Gown takes a deep breath and motions for the doors to open.

**Nazarick - 295 AC**

Blackfish is still stunned by what had just occurred. At first they refused to enter the void, suspecting it as a trap. But when Shella went into it willingly, the rest of the men followed her. There was a sudden embrace by cold and darkness, and the next thing he knew he's in a different place.

He doesn't know how to describe that thing. Is it magic? Yes. But what sorts? He has heard of fire mages and shadowbinders, suspecting the little girl as the latter. But the dark void does not fit any of them; the closest is perhaps being a shadow, due to its dark appearance. But it functions more like a doorway. _A doorway of shadows..._

The hall they're now in is quite opulent in appearance, rivalling that of King's Landing. Above him, strange glowing crystals act as chandeliers and provide light. Lining the walls are not only red marble pillars but alcoves as well, containing statues of... Things. He doesn't like the look of them; none resemble humans. Some are draconic in appearance, teeth and claws digging into the podium. Others are hard to look at. He could see a writhing mass of worms in one alcove and a tree with legs in another. They appear far too life-like, as if creatures frozen in time. "Demons," he hears Tytos murmur under his breath. He wants to chastise Lord Blackwood for insulting their host's interior design, but can't. It is the most apt description, after all. _Demons..._

They stand before a massive doorway, lavishly decorated with metal engravings. On one side, a beautiful image of a woman shines from the door. The other door is that of a howling horned beast, its claws ready to reach out and grab them. Blackfish gulps. _Whoever made this place likes to play with fear._

Steeling himself, the doors open. His blood runs cold.

At the end of the room, seated on a massive black throne rivalling the one in the Red Keep, is a skeleton. No, it's more than that. The thing seated there exudes an air of power. Blackfish feels trapped, like looking into the jaws of Balerion itself. The darkness and dread of the camp last night seems like a far-flung comfort to him. His knees feel weak, cold sweat running down his back. He wants to scream, to run back to Riverrun and hide himself within its walls. But for all his efforts he cannot move, he cannot not blink. He's staring at the face of the Stranger.

Something touches his arm, causing him to jolt. He realises that he's been holding his breath all that time, causing him to gasp. Tearing his eyes away from the Thing-on-the-Throne, he sees Shella behind him, urging him to walk forwards. He sees the faces of Tytos and Stevron, scared out of their wits as well. But he remembers again why he's here: on behalf of his brother. Swallowing his fears, he steps forwards.

Reaching the steps, their two attendants and Shella kneels before the throne. It takes all of his will to not follow them. He needs to stand firm for this meeting.

"You are in the presence of the Supreme Being Ainz Ooal Gown," he hears someone speak. He realises that they're not the only one in the room. Standing to the monster's side is a beauty of all graces dressed in white and gold. A golden necklace resembling spider webs adorns her shoulders and chest. Her long, dark-purple hair frames her beautiful face, though her gentle smile seems to hide immense hatred and malice. Her golden, cat-like eyes bore into his own. He notices that her dress is also in an unknown style, a feast for the eyes. But what disturbs him more are the dark pair of wings on her hips and the white, curved horns on her head. They appear to be more than just ornaments. "It is disrespectful for worms like you to stand. KNE-"

"That is enough, Albedo," a stern voice cuts in. Blackfish realises that the Thing-on-the-Throne can speak, and move for that matter. It raises its hand, all bones and no meat, but sporting a ring on each finger. "Shalltear, Lupusregina, Shella, you may stand." With the command, everyone rises. The two women head up the steps and take their place upon it; he notes that the little girl stands above the maid. Shella, on the other hand, slithers back to the three lords.

Having calmed himself down somewhat, he takes in the room. The space could only be described as magnificent. Several hundred men can stand within its walls with great ease. The extremely high vaulted ceilings are held up by massive stone pillars, decorated with inlays of golden floral patterns. Large flags hang from poles on the second floor, though he does not recognise any of the insignias. Above him, chandeliers of what he assumes to be dragonglass glow with blood-red candles. The carpet he stands on is as soft as any furs one might find in Essos. But the most impressive is the throne itself. While the seat is not tall, its back reaches high towards the ceiling. The dark crystals around it claw at the heavens, translucent in the light. Above it, he recognises the emblem of the Great Nazarick Empire.

He looks closer at the Thing-on-the-Throne; it is unlike anything he had ever seen. Though a hood covers its head, he can still see its face. Its countenance is sharp and long, bearing sharp teeth like a wolf's. Yet, it seems to have taken a human shape in overall appearance. It reminds him of wights of the old tales, but the one before him is far cleaner, its bone as clean as marble. It wears a dark robe bordered in purple, similar to that of maesters but far more regal and in finer materials. Oversized pauldrons decorate its shoulders, and he sees a glint of red within its chest.

"I am the ruler of the Great Nazarick Empire, Ainz Ooal Gown." The monster's words raise goosebumps on Blackfish's arms. Its voice belies the monstrous speaker: calm and regal, fitting for a king. _Is that thing royalty where it came from?_ "Forgive me for calling you on such short notice, and I'm sure you have many things to ask. So please, tell me your names."

Straightening himself, Blackfish begins his introduction. "I am Ser Brynden Tully, brother of Lord Paramount of the Trident Hoster Tully. I am here to speak on his behalf."

"I am Lord Tytos Blackwood, Lord of Raventree Hall, a vassal under Lord Hoster Tully."

"I am Ser Stevron Frey, heir to House Frey. I am speaking on behalf of my father Lord Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing, a vassal to Lord Hoster Tully."

"However," Blackfish adds, "we have come under the banners of Robert Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals, The Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm of Westeros, of which your 'Empire' have intruded." Such long titles are meant to intimidate the monster, showing that it has no right to rule in Westeros.

Yet the monster does not answer right away. Instead, he hears a slight chuckle coming from it, then from the other attendants as well. Blackfish's eye twitches in anger but he keeps himself calm; there's no need to bring that thing's ire on him so early in the day. "I see," it answers. "Our arrival to your lands has been poorly received by your King. I want to establish a good relationship between your ruler and myself, as it is one of my goals. However, I must disappoint you: I will not be leaving these lands anytime soon."

The worst has come ahead for Blackfish: the monster intends to stay. Everything he has seen suggested that it may be permanent. This will only lead to two things within his mind: cooperation or war. With King Robert on the Iron Throne, the latter seems far more likely. But for his luck, the creature may not want it to end like that. "There are problems with that. You are but an invader to our lands, and you have acquired ownership of Harrenhal through deplorable means. Your title as Emperor or Supreme Being may hold in the lands you hail from, but not here. Not with the lords, nor with the commonfolk." Care is needed in such discussions, but Blackfish prefers to lay it all out bluntly. No need for meandering talks and politeness; he needs to find out what the monster wants. Truly wants. And perhaps even information about its origins.

He can feel the burning hatred from its followers' eyes, but that fades as soon as the monster speaks. _That creature certainly holds the respect of its subject, whether through power or fear._ "I hear your concerns, Brynden. It is something that I have already considered. Lupusregina, if you please." The maid bows and heads out somewhere in the dark shadows of the throne room. The thing rises from its seat. "Now, I have spoken to Shella Whent regarding the lordship of Harrenhal and the surrounding lands. As she relinquished it all in my name-"

"-by force," Tytos cuts in, the fear on his face now replaced with anger.

"But relinquished it all the same. Thus, by the customs of your land, I am the rightful ruler of these lands, am I not?"

 _So the monster has studied._ "It may be so, but your presence is not welcome here, monster." The attendants behind the thing are about to speak up, but the creature raises its hand, silencing them.

"Not yet, Brynden Tully. Not yet." With that, Blackfish hears the sound of heavy footsteps. Fearing the worst, he puts a hand on the pommel of his sword, ready to fight. But instead of weapons and shields, the skull knights that enter carry chairs and a long, ivory-white table. Setting them down, the knights offer them seats. They reluctantly do so, sinking into its soft cushions. The maid comes in bearing a decorated chest and several rolls of parchment and sets them down on the table. "Thank you, Lupuregina." With that, she returns to her position. The creature opens the chest, revealing ten crystal bottles containing reddish liquid.

The lords are curious now. "What is that?" he asks.

"Brynden Tully," the monster begins, "I heard tales of your brother, the Lord Paramount of the Trident Hoster Tully. How he had helped your king, Robert Baratheon, attain the Iron Throne against the Mad King Aerys. He was a strong soldier and commander, no doubt deserving the title of Lord Paramount."

"Those tales are true, though often embellished." _Where is it going with this?_

"I have also heard of rumours. How the Lord Paramount of the Trident, the great commander, appears less and less each year. How the commonfolk fear that their lord is growing ill. How he has grown portly, weak, and-"

"You do NOT say that about my brother!" Blackfish slams his fist onto the table, pausing the monster's speech. How DARE that thing insult the Lord Paramount, to his brother's face no less. The two men may have their problems, but he still respects Hoster. He turns to Shella. "You. Did you tell this thing about your Lord Paramount!?"

"N-No, never, Ser Blackfish!" The old woman cowers from him. She looks to be truthful on that matter. He looks back at the monster, furious.

"Again, Brynden, rumours," the monster continues on. "However, from your reaction, I assume they are closer to the truth than you let on. I do not know what illness has struck him, but there are ways to deal with them through magic." The creature pulls out one of the bottles. "As such, I am offering you these. They are called healing potions, and it can cure your brother's illness."

 _Healing potions?_ The other lords also look at it with confusion. He knows of salves and ointments made by maesters to help wounds heal. But sickness does not have a guaranteed cure; even the greatest of maesters are hard-pressed to heal, especially someone who's old and frail. He also doubts the monster's claim. It wouldn't be the first time someone has tried to swindle the Tullies with fake medicine and cure-alls. "How am I to be sure you're not lying, monster? That these bottles are not filled with poison?"

"Try it yourself then, Brynden. See its effects on your body."

Before he could reply, Stevron grabs the bottle and opens it. He takes a whiff of the cap. "...Smells like ox-blood," he comments.

"I know nothing of smell," the monster replies, "I have no nose."

"Heh, so you can jest as well." Stevron swirls the liquid, looking at its content. It looks to be high-quality glass, better than the usual Myrish ones found in expensive markets. "So, how do you use this thing? Do you drink it or rub it on yourself?"

"What. Are you doing, Ser Stevron?" Tytos asks, glaring at the man. "For all we know, that thing could rot the flesh off our tongues, and you just smelt it?"

"Look," Stevron puts down the bottle. "My nose is still on my face."

"That doesn't mean it's not poison, Stevron."

"Oh please, Lord Tytos. You're being more uptight than a Frey. Look, if that _thing_ wants us dead, then there's no need for all of this elaborate farce. There are skull knights all around us. And tell me, do you see any windows here?" Blackfish stares back at the walls around them; he failed to notice that fact. "I don't know where we are, but I doubt we can run very far. And since we're in your abode as guests, I shall assume that you're not trying to slay me where I stand. So, I ask you again monster. How do you use this thing?"

The monster stays silent for a while before speaking. "They are called Greater Healing Potions. You can consume or apply it directly to your wounds. They are powerful enough to reattach or regrow the torn-off limbs of soldiers. Though it can cure sickness, it will not cure old age." It then raises its finger. Blackfish sees that the ring on that one swirls in a deep blue colour. "And to correct your statement, they are called Death Knights."

"Death Knights huh? Is that for their prowess, or- You know what, I'd rather not know. You make bold claims, monster. I'll see you uphold it." The Frey ungloves his left hand and draws a dagger with the other. From the ripples and colouration, Blackfish recognises it as a Valyrian steel blade. He's not aware of the Freys owning any in their inventory, but the blade is small enough to be forgotten from history. Knowing their lord, they probably stole it from some poorer house. As Stevron raises the dagger, the Tully can see some hesitation; all that bravery is perhaps nothing but a front for the monster. But he has to admire him: not even he would be foolish enough to do this.

Tytos can only watch in horror as Stevron brings the blade down, cutting off his index finger. The slice is clean, leaving nothing but a bloody stump. Stifling a scream, he grabs the bottle and pours nearly half of it onto his bleeding hand and the table. For a few seconds, nothing happens. Stevron's eyes go wide, realising what he has actually done. But before he could react-

"What the-"

"By the Seven!"

As the blood mixes with the red substance, Stevron's stump glows green. The ring of light creeps upwards, forming bones, flesh, and skin below it. Reaching his fingertip, the light disappears, leaving only an unblemished finger where the stump used to be.

Their mouths are wide agape in shock. As if checking on whether or not it's real, he pokes the finger with the dagger. He winces; it's real alright, for it even bleeds. He then grabs the cut-off finger and put the two side-by-side, the sight quite surreal for all the lords present. "...Unbelievable."

"If dealing with limbs," the monster speaks, "such as a leg cut off at the hip, it will take a full bottle to grow it back. Reattaching will consume significantly less. With an illness like your brother's, I suggest ingesting half of the bottle. Regrowing that finger only needed a small amount, nowhere near as much as you've spilt."

Blackfish stays silent. What he had just witnessed is true magic. Not the performance arts in the streets. Not even those things he saw the servants of this monster do, for all of that could be trickery of the shadows. No, this is something real. Tangible. And there are ten bottles of it on the table. All those times a servant had fallen and died. All of those villagers during the wave of fever many years back. Robert's Rebellion and the Greyjoys as well. All of those lives lost that could be saved. _If I could have a maester dilute it, then this thing could be distributed to hundreds of people during an emergency. It may not be enough to regrow limbs, but healing any wounds for that matter at such a large scale..._ He looks up at the monster. Though it has no lips, for some reason, it seems to be grinning. "How did you create this, Lord Ainz?"

"Magic."

A short and simple answer, but one that carries immense weight. This means that only the monster and its followers will be able to create more. The production and resources needed to craft it will remain a secret, even if Blackfish sends one of the bottles to be analysed in the Citadel. If they run out, they'll have to come begging at its feet for more. They'll play right into the hand of that monster. _Its sharps, deadly claws._ A part of his mind tells him to run and never accept, but the other... "What do you have in mind, Lord Ainz?"

The creature closes the bottle and places it back into the chest, locking it. "What I want, Brynden Tully, is quite simple. First, you and your brother shall acknowledge me as the rightful ruler of Harrenhal and its surrounding lands. Second, he shall recognise and legitimise the Great Nazarick Empire and me as its ruler. Third, no harm shall befall my servants or vassals. If that is broken, then I shall retaliate in kind."

 _That... Doesn't seem too bad._ Blackfish seeks counsel from his fellow lords. Though Stevron is still enamoured with his fingers, Tytos is not. The young lord's expression tells him that the man is quite reluctant of the offer. _There is nothing to gain for him, after all._ The best decision to make is to have a solid conversation with his brother and make a more educated choice. But if he refuses now, they may never get the bottle again. "I see the benefits of this agreement, though it does lean quite heavily in your favour. May I suggest some amendments?"

"Speak."

"First, the gift of potions shall also be to the two lords by my side. They have come here and deserve rewards for their efforts, especially Ser Stevron for sacrificing his finger. Second, as no harm shall come to your subjects, then none shall come to ours of the Riverlands. For now, I shall forgive the loss of my scouts. Though, I'm not sure if House Roote will give you that reprieve. Third, with the possibility of trade in the future, House Tully will supervise the distribution of any goods that goes outside of the Riverlands." The last agreement is to ensure the monopoly of such strange and magical items. An uncontrolled trade might mean the Empire collaborating with those carrying interests that harm the Realm. Besides, a few extra gold dragons a year is a benefit.

The thing scratches its chin. _Can it even itch?_ "Though I will agree with the first and second amendment, the third is far too restrictive in my view."

"May I remind you that in the eyes of the Realm, you are nothing but a bunch of invaders, Lord Ainz. This agreement will assure you of legitimacy within Westeros." Thinking about it, he's not even sure if the creature is an invader. The tomb would take longer than a month to build, and he doubts Shella Whent was ever in contact with it before. Even so, the creature doesn't want to be controlled. It never referred to him as Ser, nor to the Lord Paramount as Lord, or even the King. If he does not rein in the beast, the future of the realm may be in jeopardy.

"Hmm... Then I shall consult this with your Lord Paramount, Hoster Tully. While I do respect your position in speaking on his behalf, I prefer the judgement of the man himself."

 _So the monster only accepts my judgement if it's beneficial to the Empire. How shrewd, quite fitting for a ruler._ "Then I shall send a raven to arrange a meeting with my brother. I'm sure many in House Whent are more than capable of showing the way to our seat in Riverrun."

"So it is decided. Let us legitimise our agreements through a pact, Brynden Tully. With your lords and my servants as witnesses." Reaching for the paper and quill, Blackfish hears some murmurs coming out of the creature's mouth. Then, the one he's about to grab starts glowing and floats to the monster's side, writing down on the parchment. Though this is very impressive, Blackfish is more taken by the language that's written on the page. Though the thing speaks perfect Common Tongue, the writing is unidentifiable. Each stroke creates rune-like shapes across the page. _Like the First Men's cuts on weirwood... I need a maester to identify the writing._

The two recite the pact back to each other, ensuring that the other party has not made any embellishment to theirs. They seal the papers with wax insignias: Tully's that of a leaping trout and the Empire's strange emblem. Satisfied, the two shake hands. Upon touching the bony hands, Blackfish feels a sudden jolt of pain. The first pact between The Riverlands and the Great Nazarick Empire has been made.

Their fates are sealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 9th February 2021


	4. The Cold Winds of the South - Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With negotiations done, the two men wonder what the future will hold for their nations' relations.

**Riverlands - 295 AC**

The Riverlands company rides back to their camp in haste. It's nearing sundown, and Blackfish doesn't want to risk an accidental skirmish with the people he just made pacts with. Though the red-haired maid offered to accompany them, he declined, citing safety for the maid. But the real reason is mainly that he fears her spying, or perhaps even pulling a trick on them on their ride to the camp. He felt it in her eyes; the cunning and cruelty hiding beneath that cheery facade. Or perhaps not a facade, and she's just one to enjoy such activities. Besides, all of his soldiers are more than eager to leave the dreaded castle.

On his lap is the chest given by Ainz Ooal Gown, containing ten bottles of the magic potions. It is far heavier than it looks, but easy enough for him to manage. Upon closer examination, the chest itself is something of value. The fine and polished wood perhaps came from dark oak, yet it feels as hard as steel. The corners are decorated with silver and gold flowers, with the lid featuring an image of a winged creature. He raises the lock, which is made out of some strange shining metal. Blackfish tries to scratch it with his sword, but to no avail. Whatever it is, it's strong. _I'll need an expert blacksmith to reproduce it._

He trots his horse to Stevron, who's now cradling two bottles of the red stuff. Luckily for them, the monster was amused by the Frey's antics and gave him two bottles for his troubles. "Ser Stevron."

"Ey, Blackfish! Is something the matter?"

"I just want to ask you a question: why in the Seven hells did you do that!?"

"Ah yes, the finger cutting." He pulls out a bloody pouch from his jacket. "When you've lived as long as I, you start to search for more things to keep your interest. Besides, you haven't got much to complain about; we got an extra bottle!"

"You're only ten years older, Frey."

"Hah, under my father, you'll age fifty more!" Both men laugh before Stevron continues. "But no, seriously. We're all old men, but I reckon the first to die of old age will be me and you before my father. That man," he whistles, "he's strong. And seeing that Lord Ainz, perhaps that's what my father will be. A living pile of bones, could you imagine!"

"No need to."

"Yes, yes. It's been a wild day, huh..." Stevron stuffs away his finger before turning to Blackfish. He looks serious, the joy from before gone. "Your brother, the Lord Paramount, will not like what you've done," Stevron confesses. "You know that even ill, he's still quite stubborn. Prideful AND stubborn. Really, you should know more than anyone else, Blackfish. Once he hears that the invaders still live and you've made a pact with them, nothing will prevent him from branding you a traitor. At least, he'll throw his soup at you."

"Certainly not the worst he has done," Blackfish replies. "But he'll understand. We were sent on the assumption that Lady Shella Whent died that day. But as she's still alive, he may change his mind."

"Lady Shella lives, yes, but not two-thirds of her men. Neither the one hundred of Roote's and a hundred of your own bannermen." His words lay heavy against the old knight. "I pray to the Seven that we've done the right thing, Blackfish. This is something we'll never be able to take back." With that, the Frey rides off to the front of the group.

Blackfish knows the risks of this. He needs to convince the other lords, who were not in the meeting, of his decision. No doubt they'll see him as a snake, serving his own greed and desires rather than that of the Realm. Even Tytos, who he had convinced to agree to the potions and was present for the meeting, holds disdain towards the pact. Yet, the old knight intends to stand his ground. _This will hopefully be a great beginning for the Realm. It will take a lot of work and compromises, but things will change for the Riverlands. and for the better._

He sees the encampment from behind the tree lines. It's not far, and the sun has yet to set. And from the looks of it, his outriders have reached it and perhaps informed them of his status. As the shadows lengthen, he thinks back to Shella's words. _Shadowbinder... Will more bonfires defend us from that? Maybe they'll lighten my men's spirits._

Blackfish stops his horse. He hears some loud rustling from within the woods, which his soldiers are adamant to ignore. Curious, he heads deeper and finds a couple of those death knights carrying logs of wood. Luckily, none of them mind his presence as he observes their actions. One of the death knights raises its wavy sword and strikes at a tree, bringing it down in one swing. He takes a step back; that tree is about as thick as a man's waist. _What strength! Even with Valyrian steel, many chops would be needed to cut that down._

He remembers again the events of last night. If they had refused, those things would have gone around and butchered his soldiers. He himself doubts whether or not he could take them down. _To think that these are their main forces... What of their artillery and siege weapons? Are they too weapons of magic?_

He leaves those knights. He has more pressing matters.

Upon entering the camp, Blackfish does not stop at the waiting lords. Instead, he heads directly to the rookery and searches for ravens heading to King's Landing and Riverrun. With the ravens ready, he writes the first letter.

_Lord Paramount of the Trident,_

_I bear good news. Lady Shella Whent is still alive. However, she has relinquished all rights and lands to the current owner of Harrenhal, the Great Nazarick Empire._

_I have not battled. However, I have come into a pact agreement with its ruler, Ainz Ooal Gown. Lord Tytos Blackwood and Ser Stevron Frey were witnesses to this pact._

_Ainz Ooal Gown will be arriving at Riverrun in a week to discuss matters of trade relations. We are at an advantage, as they are still within our lands._

_May the Seven find you in good health,_

_Ser Blackfish_

He also writes a similar message to King's Landing, especially regarding the nature of the Empire. Of course, he abstains from mentioning any magic within those letters; he wants to convince them after all. Perhaps with this, King Robert will not send any forces up north. No, the subject of magic must be discussed privately with his brother. Even then, he might still be reluctant to believe it.

_Unless..._

He looks through the cages and finds a single raven marked for the Citadel. The bird looks old, clearly hasn't been out of its cage for a while. "No worries, I'll give you some time to fly." With that, he writes another letter.

_Archmaesters of the Citadel,_

_I, Ser Brynden Tully, speak on behalf of my brother, Lord Paramount of the Trident Hoster Tully._

_I am not asking for a new maester; Maester Vyman is in good health. However, due to a developing situation, we are asking for counsel with a maester bearing Valyrian steel chains._

_We are getting acquainted with the self-proclaimed Great Nazarick Empire, the ones who have conquered Harrenhal. They are gifted in magic. They have shadowbinders in their ranks, and have given us gifts._

_They can regrow limbs, which has been performed by Ser Stevron Frey, heir of the Twins. His finger had grew back in seconds._

_It would be wise to send one adept in the dark arts. This is for the future of the Realm._

_May the Seven bless us,_

_Ser Brynden Tully_

**Nazarick - 295 AC**

Momonga watches the Tully knight move about in the camp through the [Mirror of Remote Viewing]. Doing so, he can observe them safely from a distance. Sadly, the item does not allow a person to see inside of buildings and structures without additional buffs; he'd rather save the cash items he has for future spendings. He was first reluctant to use it due to past experiences with other players. But knowing this world's lack of capacity for magic, Momonga is quite confident that nothing can detect its use.

From the numerous bird feathers strewn about the tent, he can probably guess that Brynden Tully is inside what's called a rookery. Harrenhal had one, but it was burnt down during the counterattack. _A shame. It would be interesting to learn more about the ways of communication in this world._ For a moment, the shadow of the tent shivers and glows with yellow eyes. _Alright, the [Shadow Demons] are in place._ He sent out the Level 30 demons to act as his eyes and ears in the Riverlands. Their innate nature and skill to blend in with shadows are advantageous in stealth. The first group of demons were sent to survey the inner-workings of Harrenhal. Sure enough, the castle is full of secret passageways and tunnels, perhaps built there during the initial construction. They also found traces of habitation within said passages, though they're unable to find a single person inside. _So either the spies are more skilled than I thought, or it was abandoned a long time ago._

This worries Momonga. If any of them is capable of breaching the tomb's security, then ears would be listening in on him right now. Even here, in the suites of the Tenth Floor, someone could be hiding under his bed. But then again, no one has yet to breach the floor even back in Yggdrasil. Maybe he's just being too cautious.

"Shalltear."

"Yes, Momonga-sama."

"Make sure that your floors are secure and well protected. Anyone entering the tomb should always be observed and tracked by [Shadow Demons]. If you have any suspicions, capture rather than kill them. They may carry some useful information."

"Yes, Momonga-sama. I will see it done." But before Shalltear could leave through [Gate], he stops her.

 _No, I shouldn't just send them away like that._ In front of him, Lupusregina and Shalltear stand, ready for his commands. Those two have worked non-stop ever since their arrival to this new world. It was Shalltear that led the undead forces and spoke with the Lords of Riverlands; her initiative has made the pact possible in the first place. Lupusregina has done great work in supervising the rebuilding of Harrenhal. He chose her as her cheerful demeanour is definitely far more appealing to the outsiders compared to the other Nazarick NPCs. _No, they're not NPCs anymore, are they? They're living, breathing... OK, not all are alive nor breathing, but they can think. They have sentience and wills and wishes of their own. If I treat them coldly here, then I'm no better than my bosses back in Japan._

He remembers those times spent as the human Suzuki Satoru. His unpaid overtime crunches, his resentment to bosses and co-workers alike, the people's martyr-like attitude towards work. He doesn't want that here; he considers the denizens like his children, after all. At least, the children of the other guild members. "Shalltear. Lupusregina." The two bow at his voice. "You two have done a tremendous deal towards the betterment of Nazarick in the past month. Without your help, our amicable relationship with the Lords of Riverlands would have never flourished."

"Your praise is too great, Momonga-sama. It was your wisdom and planning that has brought them into the palm of your hands," Shalltear answers, smiling brightly at him.

"That's true! Your power and fierceness have left a mark on those humans. Soon, they all will know the name of the Supreme Being," Lupusregina adds, cackling.

 _Fierceness? I nearly made a fool out myself back there._ Momonga really didn't expect the old man to cut off his own finger. He thought that by telling them to try it themselves, they may just apply it to old wounds or make a small cut. Not a whole finger. "Even so, I see it fit to reward the two of you for your efforts. Tell me your wish, and I will grant them within reason."

He's ready to welcome any requests they make, but the two stay still. All he can see in their faces are confusion and fear. Shalltear is about to say something, but is interrupted by Lupusregia. "I'm sorry Momonga-sama! I'm not so deserving of your kindness. Being trusted with such great responsibility is a great enough gift for me~" she shouts, bowing deeply as she does so.

"S-Same for me as well, Momonga-sama," Shalltear follows Lupusregina's bow. "The work that you've given me is a reward on its own!"

He sighs. _I should have expected this. They look so sincere about it too. If my boss back in Japan started talking about me receiving bonuses, I would be suspicious as well._ Momonga ponders on what his next move should be. It's easy to just follow their wishes and dismiss them, but he fears that it will create a toxic working environment. One where a person's hard work is rewarded with more work. He saw that Shalltear was about to say something before, so it's clear that they do have their wishes. He needs to nip this in the bud. Now. "That will not do."

"But-"

"With hard work, you shall be rewarded. I follow this principle, and I expect you to do the same. Now, as for your gifts," he reaches into his [Item Box], searching for the equipment he needs. "You may not know them yet, and that's fine. You may request me at a later time. However, you still need to be rewarded. And so, I'm giving you these." He pulls out two ring boxes in his hand. He opens them, revealing the silver-encrusted sapphire rings within. "These are the [Rings of Ainz Ooal Gown]."

The two look at him with flustered expressions. "I- But we can't-"

"Nonsense." He cuts them off. "You WILL accept these gifts. They are tools to help you traverse Nazarick. It will especially alleviate you, Shalltear, from having to always cast [Gate]. Though it was designed with the other forty Supreme Beings in mind, as they're not here, then I think it will be fine for you to wear them." The rings were not picked out randomly. One was originally worn by Peroroncino, Shalltear's creator, while the other by Beast King Mekongawa, who created Lupusregina. _Hopefully that'll erase the feeling of worry about their creator not coming here._

Lupusregina is the first to speak. "Um... If it's alright with Momonga-sama, then... For my wish, may I ask for you to put on the ring for me!?" She presents the slender fingers on her right hand.

 _That's... An odd wish. But there should be no problem in fulfilling it._ Taking out the ring, Momonga places it on Lupusregina's-

 _Wait. Where is the proper place for a ring?_ He never really thought about this back in Yggdrasil; rings are just another piece of equipment to him. He's wearing ten of them right now, arranged in a colour gradient. They look neat. But for a gift? _Ring finger, right? It has "ring" in its name._

-ring finger. It fastens itself on her, and she lets out a yelp.

He pulls his hand back, afraid that the magic resizing feature of the ring had hurt her. He can't feel pain, but doesn't mean the other denizens can't. "Are you alright?"

"Oh, um, no, uh-" she stammers, trying to get her words together. "Thank you Momonga-sama!" With a quick bow, she teleports out of the room, leaving Shalltear behind.

_...Strange._

He moves on to Shalltear, who is already presenting her hand. Wearing the ring, she gazes and kisses it. "I shall cherish it, Momonga-sama."

"Of course. It was once worn by Peroroncino-san, your creator. It will serve you well."

Alone again, Momonga looks back into the scene in the mirror. The tent is empty. Zooming out, he sees a crowd forming at the top of a hill. If he remembers correctly, tha'st place is where Shalltear met with the lords. He zooms in, focusing on the large tent at the top. He sees the Tully arguing with a group of angry men. From their clothes, they look like fellow lords. Sadly, the mirror doesn't provide sound; all he can do is watch it all go down. One of the men in the group pulls out a sword and points it at the Tully. Momonga's anxious now, knowing that whatever happens next will determine the path he has to take.

Two more men draw their swords. Then three more. The Tully draws his own and shouts at the group, causing them to flinch. The two lords that was with him for the meeting draw their own weapons and sides with the Tully. After a few more intense shouts and exchanges, they all sheathe their swords and enter the large tent.

Momonga relaxes and sinks into his chair. _That could have gone badly. At least they're willing to cooperate._ But all that means that none of the other lords would accept him so easily. Again, he is not welcomed here. He has to find out a way to win them over, starting perhaps with the head of the region, Hoster Tully. If he can befriend the old man, the other lords might soften up.

Thinking back to the Lords he met, the youngest of them, Tytos Blackwood, looked old enough to be Suzuki's father. And the others could be his grandfather. They are far more experienced than Momonga in the art of politics and business dealings, putting him at a disadvantage if he wants to build nice relations. So, one of his main goals is to learn more about the world he's in. What are the customs? Who are the people? Are there any important places he should know about? Like King's Landing and Riverrun? _Maybe Hoster Tully can provide me with that if I ask nicely. Shit, I also need to send delegates to the king of this land then. I only have a week to prepare for this meeting... Wait, is a week seven days in this world?_

There's no rest for the wicked. He has work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated on 16th February 2021


	5. Intermission - 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gears are slowly turning in King's Landing as two men ponders on what Westeros would be like in the future. At the same time, Marwyn decides to find the source of the world's magical surge.

**King's Landing - 295 AC**

Walking through the halls of the Red Keep, Varys finds a smiling man in front of his room. From the short height and the immaculate combing of his hair, he can easily tell who it is.

"Lord Varys, what a coincidence to meet you here!"

"There are no such things as coincidences, Lord Baelish. Only patterns," Varys bows, his hands still tucked within his golden sleeves. "Besides, no coincidence will bring you in front of my room."

"Wait, is this your room?" the man jests. Though Petyr is smiling, Varys can see that it never reaches his eyes. They remain cold and calculating, friendliness is nothing but a mummer's farce to him. "Of course I know it's your quarters, old friend. I just want to talk with you, that's all."

"I prefer to talk elsewhere, if you don't mind."

"Of course, lead the way!"

The two head out of the dingy quarters of the Red Keep and into its more open spaces. Passing by some of the guards, they head out towards the balcony overlooking King's Landing. Even from this high up, the city smell is still carried up by an updraft. Varys leans on the balcony, watching the sight below him. _To think all of this would have burnt down in wildfire. Even Ser Jaime Lannister has his uses in getting rid of the foul stuff, but there's no sure way to contain them safely._ Even after the Rebellion, not much has changed for the lives of the commonfolk. For all their love of the new king, none of it prevents or slows the growth of the city slums; all are as down-trodden as before. And with Prince Rhaegar gone, all that's left is the princes and princess across the Narrow Sea.

"Got something on your mind, Lord Varys?"

"Oh, not much Baelish. I'm guessing you want to talk about the fifty gold dragons you owed me."

Varys knows Petyr quite well. As the Master of Coins, he has access to all the Realm's finances and coffers; those dragons are nothing but a drop in the bucket for him. But what intrigues the Spider is that, like himself, Petyr came from a lowborn background. He used his skills in politics and business to rise to the top of the Realm. There's no doubt in his ability, but there is in his trustworthiness.

Varys had originally considered him to be a potential ally in bettering the Realm, but he soon realised that he was wrong. Petyr is only here for the good of himself; other people are just tools in his disposal. And like Varys, the man has grown his own network of birds, even if it is cruder in nature. Owning multiple whorehouses in King's Landing does help. But of course, as fellow informants, they enjoy placing bets on the who, what, and where of information. Varys won the bet by predicting that the invaders of Harrenhal would not fight and make agreements instead. Petyr, the cynic he is, predicted a violent clash.

"Do not worry, I shall have the money sent to your account by sundown." Petyr walks over to the many flower pots on the balcony. He picks off a single rose and smells the petal. "Lord Varys, you may have won the bet, but you're not satisfied with the results." Twisting the thorns, he throws the flower over the balcony and onto some guard's helmet. "I know I'm not."

"My whispers tell me tales of knights and horses made out of shadows and bones. One whisper, I'd ignore it."

"But all of them?"

"Then we have trouble, Lord Baelish," Varys sighs. Though he has no way to confirm those whispers other than going there himself, the sheer frequency means that he has to relent and accept it. "These invaders of ours are in cohorts with shadowbinders. _Magic._ " He absolutely detests it. There's a reason why he prefers the society of Westeros compared to Essos; magic has no hold here. The prevalence of the strange is far too much back in Essos. And with his previous experience, he has no heart to return.

"Yes, Lord Varys. My birdies have been telling me similar things as well. Chatters and chirpings of shadows and death. Well," he chuckles, "at least they've put a name on them."

"Ainz Ooal Gown." An unknown name, not written in the annals of history nor whispered in the ears of fairy tales. This is disconcerting to Varys; the Spymaster is supposed to know things after all. The Great Nazarick Empire and its leader are unknown players in this game of thrones. "None of my birds have caught glimpses of the man, for he resides within the walls of Harrenhal. However, those with Ser Brynden Tully, Lord Tytos Blackwood and Ser Stevron Frey, have."

"I see," Petyr replies, a bit more interested in the matter. "And what do they say about this Ainz?"

"It is not what they say, but what they refrain from saying." Petyr raises an eyebrow, but Varys continues. "In the company of their men and other lords, they describe him as an imposing figure. One that commands loyalty and respect to their subjects. In private however, the three describe him as a monster. A creature wrought in bones. Quite a fantastical description."

Petyr laughs and strokes his beard. "Ah, that does sound quite imaginative. Unbelievable, even! Perhaps it's just like the Imp. The man is no demon, but just a simple dwarf. Makes sense why he doesn't show his face. But his servants though," the man smirks, "quite the beauty, I hear. Valyrian."

"My whispers told me that the one named Shalltear Bloodfallen is the conqueror of Harrenhal."

"And my birds told me that she's but a little girl, all dressed up in frills and laces. Quite the discrepancy, is it not, Lord Varys?"

"Very," the Spider replies. But he trusts his whispers more than whatever birds Littlefinger has in his cage. From the information given, she seems to be the shadowbinder that the three Rivermen talked about. This would support her Valyrian looks, as it's far more common in Essos than Westeros. _Did she perhaps come from the land of no birds? Like the Shadow over Asshai?_ Having no one there, information reaches his ears very slowly regarding the going-ons of that land. Varys sighs, rubbing his hands. _Perhaps that's what I need to do. Research on_ magic. _Yet, where should I-_

"What are you two doing here?"

The two lords bow their head to Robert, who just entered with Ser Barristan Selmy in tow. From the looks of it, the man has just finished playing with his children; a small bow is attached to beard and another in his hair. "Nothing much, your grace," Petyr answers. "We're simply discussing our bets."

"Bets?" the king huffs. "Never took you for a betting man, Eunuch."

"I only bet when I'm sure, your grace. And we bet in information, not horses."

"Information..." The king leans on the balcony banister, looking wistfully over the city. He takes out his wineskin from his belt and gulps half of it in seconds. It doesn't seem to be his first drink of the day either. "You know eunuch, I spared you because I understand your importance. I pardoned your involvements with the Mad King as you have the Realm's best interest in mind. And yet," he squeezes the wineskin, arbor gold dribbling to the marble floor, "the Targaryens still live and now these invaders. All you bring are dark words, eunuch. How am I supposed to trust you?"

"I only have birds, your grace. I can only offer what the whis-"

"Bah, enough with the fucking whispers!" Robert throws the wineskin, splattering the four men. "If you're a fucking spider, then why not trap them like flies!? Geh," he pinches his forehead. The hangover from yesterday's drinking is still present. "This problem. Harrenhal. Who the fuck is Ainz Ooal Gown? Can you at least tell me that?"

Varys shakes his head. No need to lie on this matter.

"Agh, should have pardoned someone better... Those invaders calling my lands, the Realm's lands, as their own 'Empire'. I'll smash him open with my war-hammer, you hear!?" If this continues, then Robert would send his forces up north. Not only would the King be outside of his control, but by crushing the invaders, his reputation as a leader will be even greater. He needs to put an end to such thoughts if things are to go as planned.

"Your grace," Petyr speaks, "if it would ease your temper, then you should know that the Lord Paramount of the Trident will have a meeting with this Ainz Ooal Gown. I suggest we take actions only AFTER the decisions have been made in Riverrun. No need to anger the Tullies by besmirching their potential ally."

Petyr flashes Varys a smile. _And now I owe him a favour. How wonderful._

"...I suppose you're right, Littlefinger," Robert sighs.

"May I speak your grace?" the Kingsguard asks. Robert nods for him to continue. "As the Commander of the Kingsguard, I find that diving into battle is best done sober."

Robert stares at Barristan for a moment before breaking into laughter. He pats the Kingsguard's back, shaking the old guard. "Oh Selmy! Hah, talking back to your king! At least you're not some ass-kissing courtesan from the court. Isn't that right, Lord Baelish?"

Petyr smiles at the insult.

"Gods, do I miss the field of battle," the king groans. "No need for all of this political conspiracy shit. Just me, my war-hammer, and a fucking Targaryen!"

"That's why we have tourneys, your grace," Varys comments.

"Of course, Eunuch. Now," the King fastens his empty wineskin, "I think it's due time for the people to see their king. Selmy, switch with Ser Boros. I'll head out by noon." With that, the king and his frowning guard leave the two men.

...

"That's another bastard on your list, Lord Varys," Petyr jests. The Spider can only sigh.

**Citadel - 295 AC  
**

No one ever requests for a maester with Valyrian steel links; at least, no one who is sane. The most requested ones are links of gold, steel, iron, and silver; those are considered useful by the general populace. The last time Valyrian links were asked for, Aegon V Targaryen burnt down the Summerhall trying to hatch dragon eggs. As such, the Citadel are always reluctant to fulfil those requests.

_But now it's different. The candle burns with black flames._

Magic and the darker mysteries have always been a taboo subject to research. As the saying goes, the last embers of magic died with Valyria. Marwyn's expertise is a rarity among rarities, and he suspects that this is intentional. In old documents regarding the hatching of dragons, information was forged from lies and fairy tales. The knowledge of incest and their effects are well known, even to non-maesters. And yet, time after time the maesters support the practice for both dragons: the fire-breather and their riders.

They are adamant in getting rid of magic once and for all.

And so with great disdain, he watched the archmaesters quenching the dragonglass flames with water and sand. But to his delighted surprise, the water boiled and the sand melted; with it, the hands of Archmaester Norren as well.

Now, they sit in silence in the Conclave. The glass candles hang over them, like the darkness eating away at their hearts. Norren's seat is empty; he's in a sorry state after all. No vigils have been held ever since the candles burn. There's no point; magic has returned. Rumours start to spread around the Citadel. They say that pyromancers are now performing more dangerous tricks and sights with their flames. Sellswords talk of shadows moving with no person to cast them. And fearful maesters whisper to each other of the walking fire, setting aflame books and stones alike.

_Magic_ is _coming back, and there's nothing these grey sheep can do about it._

In his hand, Marwyn holds the letter from Ser Brynden Tully. The one detailing the state of Harrenhal. When he read it, his mind began racing. All of it seems far too similar.

Ever since the candles 2were lit, Marwyn the Mage has been having strange dreams. Though it was known as Greensight to the Children of the Forest, what he saw was anything but. He dreamt of great broken towers rising from an ash heap, of blood rain and rivers of shadow, of golden wheels crushing anthills. The dream he had last night was a simple one. He saw a throne of black, surrounded by a throng of men and monsters. At its seat, darkness.

It's clear to him what the broken towers were, but what of the others? Are those sights of the future to come? He needs to tread carefully; if he has learnt anything of his travels in Essos, it is that prophecies are not things to be trusted. Was what he saw blood? Or something else entirely?

_Yet the black throne, it was as clear as day..._

"Archmaester Marwyn," the Seneschal speaks, "you are suggesting that the cause of those flames can be traced back to Harrenhal?"

"It is not a coincidence that the candles were set alight a day after the news of Harrenhal's conquest, Seneschal Perestan," Marwyn answers, tapping the floor with his Valyrian steel staff. "We have a message sent from the Lord Paramount of the Trident's brother confirming the maegis and shadowbinders' presence. And coming from him, I doubt he's exaggerating of the regrowing of limbs."

"Even if it is as you suspect, Archmaester Marwyn, I see no reason to send you there. There are other maesters who wield Valyrian steel links."

Marwyn raises a finger. "Links, but never a chain. I'm the only one who possesss it."

"What of your acolytes? Will you be abando-"

"-I have no students in the Citadel, Seneschal. Not after Qyburn and the meddling of Archmaester Ebrose." He glares at the silver-masked man, who's now grimacing at the mere mention of the disgraced maester. Qyburn used to be a maester under Ebrose, learning the art of healing and earning his silver links. However, he had found the archmaester lacking and sought out Marwyn. In the eyes of not only Ebrose but the entire Citadel, Marwyn the Mage is nothing but a corrupting presence to the learned minds of men. Many advocated for acolytes to leave him, and it left an impact on his standing.

He stands before them, basking in the glow of the glass candles. "I aim to delve deeper into the darkness. To shine light on what is unknown and what once was lost. I'm confident that even with the Citadel's stance against magic, you are all curious about it. Pulled in by it, are you not?" He can see a few begrudging nods from the others. Marwyn smiles. "These candles," he continues, grabbing one in his hands and staring into its blue glow, "are not just an occurrence, but a warning. A warning that if we know nothing, then the Realm of Men shall burn along with it. And I'm sure, none of us wants that conclusion."

He walks towards the Seneschal, thumping his staff with every step he takes. "All I'm asking is a trip into the Riverlands. Not to the faraway lands of Essos or Ulthos. Perhaps I'll also visit King's Landing and see the Grand Maester at work. I'm sure, with the powers vested in you, you can grant me that request."

...

Marwyn has to commend Seneschal Perestan. Though the flame hangs a mere hand's breadth away from his face, the man does not flinch. Sure, the flame does not give heat like normal fire, but it can still damage a person. Perestan analyses Marwyn a bit before sighing, sinking back into his chair. "...Alright. I shall see that your entourage is properly supplied for the trip." Perhaps the Seneschal is happy that Marwyn will be away from the Citadel, but that doesn't really matter to the Mage. All he needs is the man's approval. "So, will you be requesting anything else?"

"Yes," Marwyn smiles brightly, sporting his rust-coloured teeth. "I will be taking this candle with me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated on 01/03/2021


	6. The Muddy Tides - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the agreement made, two lords shall decide on the future of their realm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness, I had some trouble moving... Should be back to normal schedulenow.
> 
> Updated 01/03/21

**Riverrun - 295 AC**

Blackfish groans as he leans back on his seat, the aching pain from last night's sleep still apparent in his back. When he arrived at Riverrun bearing the bottles, his brother berated him for not following orders. When he rebuked, they sent him down to the dungeon. He ate nothing that day.

And now, he has been called up to the Lord Paramount of the Trident's solar. Dressed in only his breeches and smelling like fish. _They've never cleaned up those cells._ Two knights stand behind him, armed in plate and swords already drawn. Just in case.

It has been a while since Blackfish last visited his brother in the solar. Most of the time, the old man spent his time in his quarters, lying in bed or writing at his desk. Even so, Blackfish sees little tell-tale signs of his brother's habitation. On the far end of the table is a glass full of the milk of the poppy, no doubt given by the maester to help relieve his brother's pains. They also placed down the chest near the centre, out of reach for Blackfish.

He sits there and waits for the Lord Paramount, his stomach rumbling. Luckily, the servants took pity on him and comes into the room bearing a light meal: cooked trout with mushroom, bread, and butter. He nearly drools at the smell. He bites into the fish and bread, finishing it all up in mere minutes. It didn't matter that it was slightly undercooked; he's far too hungry to care.

As he licks his fingers clean, the main door opens. He stands to attention, greeting his brother.

As Hoster Tully walks into the room, Blackfish can't help but feel pained at the look of his brother. The Lord Paramount walks with a cane, Maester Vyman aiding him to his seat. Though they're of similar age, it's clear that his brother took the brunt of it. There's no more brown in his hair, only snow-white hair, draping over his shrunken shoulders. With his pale and sunken face, he looks more like a ghoul than man. His arms, ones that once wielded greatswords in battle, are now shadows of their former glory. He wears a woollen cloak, even in the heat of summer; it's not enough to contain his shivers and chills.

As he sits down, the Lord Paramount stares into Blackfish's eyes. Even with his ailing body, his gaze is still stern and cold, bearing the signature Tully eyes.He's not one to go down without a fight.

"Open the case," he commands with a raspy voice.

Under the watchful eyes of the knights, Blackfish reaches for the chest and unlocks it. He then pulls out the documents and a bottle of healing potion.

"Maester Vyman, if you will."

As Blackfish sits back down, the maester grabs the bottle and opens it, taking a whiff of the cap. He glares at Blackfish before addressing his lord. "Smells like blood, my lord."

"Of poisons?"

"None from what I can smell. The contents are just that: blood." He places back the cap.

"I see." The Lord Paramount scowls at his brother. "So. You have come back with Harrenhal still occupied and bearing gifts of blood. If you were not my brother then I would see it fit for you to remain in the cell 'til winter. Sadly, you ar-" Hoster coughs, spraying green and red spittles on the table. "You. As a knight under my direct command, you know the power you wield. And yet, you have not only betrayed your Liege Lord but also the Realm. This is unforgivable."

"Lord Paramount, if I may spea-"

"I've listened enough of your ramblings, Brynden." The old man sighs, taking a sip from the cup. "You. Blackwood. The Freys. All of you are complicit. So I see it fit proper consequences shall befall them. I'll send a raven to Lord Walder Frey, see what he has to say about his heir betraying the realm. He knows what it means to be honourable."

"Wald- Honourable!? Brother, yo-"

"Stay quiet, Ser Blackfish," the maester cuts. "You've done enough against the Lord Paramount. He'll see-"

"Brother, please listen!" Slamming his fist onto the table, the two knights move and hold their swords to his neck. But he does not mind. "I understand brother. I have betrayed your trust. And again, we are at disagreements on what should be done with the invaders. But please, I'm doing this for you and for the Realm."

"By consorting with the enemy?"

"By bargaining with a monster," Blackfish answers. "By observing its forces, by entering its fortress. But I will need guidance in the future, bother. That's why I've brought these bottles. I'm just an old knight, and I need you as my liege lord to be in your best and sharpest."

"Brynden, my body may be frail but my mind is not."

"Oh, don't jest," Blackfish winces. "What was that about Lord Walder Frey being honourable?"

"...It was a slip of a tongue-"

"-That will cause problems in the future," Blackfish adds. "You've changed in all these years. Sick and bedridden, your judgement has faltered so much as thinking Lord Frey being _honourable_. Unthinkable."

Hoster frowns at the statement and lets out a defeated sigh. "I'm tired of this. Maester Vyman."

"Yes my lord."

"Prepare two cups for me and my brother." With the maester leaving, Hoster motions for the knights to sheathe their words. "Alright, Brynden. As you are so adamant about this, why don't you tell me what you know of the invaders."

"Thank you, my Lord," he bows his head before speaking. "They call themselves the Great Nazarick Empire, led by the one named Ainz Ooal Gown. They have set up a base of sorts in Harrenhal's Godswood."

"Of sorts?"

"It... It was strange. They set up walls, gravestones, and everything. It's like they were always there from the beginning." That was perhaps the strangest part of the visit; there's clearly not enough time for the invaders to dig up such structures. And yet, the tomb still stands.

Hoster rubs his white beard, digesting the information. "I don't recall such a structure in Harrenhal. Maybe Maester Vyman can add something to this. Continue."

"Lady Shella Whent is still alive." Hoster raises his brow at the statement. "However, as far as we know, about two-thirds of her retinue have been slain during the conquering of Harrenhal. Due to this, she has sworn fealty to the Empire in order to spare the lives of her men."

Hoster coughs, green spittles dotting the table. "I see. What of their forces?"

"We don't know their exact numbers, but it is more than adequate to take on a hundred soldiers on horseback. Also," Blackfish is reluctant to say this, but feels like restraining it would only harm his brother's judgement, "they are capable of sorcery."

The two knights behind him laugh aloud. Clearly, his words are not easily believed. His brother doesn't take the statement in jest. "Are you taking me for a fool, Brynden?"

"No my lord, what I'm telling you is true. Ask Lord Tytos or Ser Stevron, they can back my claims." Blackfish leans forwards, lowering his tone. "They are very adept at it, and I fear that whatever thing they conjure up will be our downfall if we know nothing of it."

"Is that why you sent the raven to the Citadel?"

"Precisely."

Hoster groans, rubbing his temple. "Do you know how much a new maester will cost us? Please, at least tell me that you know who these sorcerers are."

"Ainz Ooal Gown is one of them." Whatever that monster did with the ink and quill is not natural. "The one who conquered Harrenhal, a Valyrian girl by the name of Shalltear Bloodfallen, is suspected to be a shadowbinder. I have a theory that those invaders have come across the Narrow Sea from Essos, though I can't place them anywhere."

"Essos..." Hoster Tully's eyes light up. "Are you telling me that this shadowbinder girl is the Targaryen?"

"Though I doubt it, I can't disregard the possibility." If it is true, then the situation would be complicated even further. Considering Robert's hatred for the Targaryens, if rumours is to leak out about her appearance, then war will be inevitable. The Crown will move up north and try to retake Harrenhal by themselves; who knows what they'll make of Riverrun, who have housed the invaders in their lands? Blackfish is still unsure if the girl is truly Daenerys Targaryen. He had a feeling of unease when he looked at her: the pale skin, sharp teeth, and those deep red eyes. He had never seen anyone like it.

The maester returns bearing cups, placing one in front of each Tullies. "Before we proceed with anything, I still need to trust you, Brynden," his brother says, tapping the cup. "If I recall, the liquid in the bottle will only heal me if it is consumed. Being the kind lord that I am, I shall give you the honour of the first sip." With that, the maester pours about a quarter of the bottle into Blackfish's cup. He stares at the dark liquid.

"If that's all I need to convince you, brother," he smirks, "then I'll gladly do so." Grabbing the cup, he downs the liquid in one gulp. And he quickly regrets it. The liquid feels thick in his throat, but what's even more unbearable is the taste. That iron, sharp taste. He coughs and hacks, spitting out half of the cup all over the table and himself. "Fucking Seven..." Wiping away the fluids from his mouth, he sees his brother laughing at him. _He looks so cheery from my suffering..._

"So how does it taste?"

"Gods, blood. Just... Blood." He can't contain his distaste towards the foul-tasting liquid. Though the Frey could attest to its healing properties, he can't think of anyone who would drink the stuff willingly. _Maybe that's why it's so powerful: bitter medicine works the best._

After a minute of silence, Hoster motions for the maester to pour his cup. The man raises his eyebrow at the order. "Well," Hoster answers the maester's suspicions, "I don't see my brother's dead body, so it may be safe for me to drink."

"Are you sure about this, my lord?"

"Perhaps not, though I don't expect my brother to be one to break oaths and betray his own blood. Of course," he looks back at Blackfish, "if he is lying, then I'm sure he's well aware of the consequences." With that, Hoster downs the cup. His face quickly changes from a scowl to that of surprise.

A dim glow emanates from Hoster Tully's body, causing the men in the room to yelp in surprise. Blackfish is unsure of what's going on, yet he can see the changes on his brother. The old man looks less sunken now, his face and skin firmer on his body. His movements are also far more alive, the signs of ailing health have disappeared from his body. As the glow subsides, he turns to Blackfish, smiling. "Huh... I guess I have no reason to doubt you then, Brynden."

"Of course, brother. But, as Ainz Ooal Gown has stated when he gave me the bottles, you need to drink half of it to cure all of your ailments. Why don't you fill another cup?"

Hoster pushes away his cup. "I think I'll refrain from doing so, Brynden." The Lord Paramount stretches his arms and fingers, admiring their revived state. Curling his hand into a fist, he continues the questioning. "In regards to their leader, Ainz Ooal Gown, you described him as a monster, did you not?"

 _Shit._ "Perhaps."

"You did, Brynden. I remember it clearly now that my migraines are gone. Tell me, what made such an impression upon you?"

Hoster's cold gaze lies upon Blackfish's own. There's no escape from this. Taking a deep breath, he answers his brother's question. "Ainz Ooal Gown... I called him a monster for he is one."

The atmosphere darkens. "In terms of deed? I've heard of worse things before."

"No, not deeds. In being. I have every suspicion that Ainz Ooal Gown is not, well, man." The maester and Lord Paramount look at him with puzzlement, but he continues. "The thing's body is unnatural. No skin or muscles, just bones. Pure white bones. And I doubt it's human bones for they look far too queer in proportions."

Hoster drums his fingers on the table. His expression is a mixture of confusion, tiredness, and anger. "How convenient is it then that only three people saw him."

"It may seem incredulous, brother, but it's the same thing for the soldiers under it. Death knights, they are called, and I can all but fear the meaning behind those words; they were not humans but creatures of black bones wearing armour. Soldiers here in Riverrun can attest to this."

Maester Vyman looks ready for an outburst before calming himself down. "Perhaps," he begins, anger lining his words, "you were tricked. What you saw might simply be illusions created by them."

"I shook its hands, Maeter Vyman," Blackfish replies. "The thing's hand are bony and cold to the touch. Almost painful even. I doubt that it could be simple illusions." Besides, the fear and terror he felt in that creature's abode was far too powerful to be fake. Even if it was fake, then magic capable of causing terror is still cause for worry.

The room stays silent. As the sun sets, a servant enters and goes about lighting candles in the room. She takes great care in not disturbing the brooding men at the table, still frowning at Blackfih's tales. Another group of servants come and place down the meals for the two Tullies: grilled meat and fish with potatoes and vegetables, accompanied with a glass of wine. As they cut into their meal, Blackfish sees his brother eating with such fervour that he has not seen him do in years. Even so, he can't see much from his brother's expressions. _Always as secretive as ever, I see._

Blackfish knows that during his brother's prime, the man had been quite cold and conniving. It gave him an edge during his dealings with family or other lords. Truly to Blackfish, the only one who could match his brother's cunning and ruthlessness is the Old Lion of the Westerlands, Tywin Lannister. The only thing that kept Hoster down was his constant sickness, turning him soft to the influence of others.

_But he's cured now. With our frayed relationship, I don't know if it's for the better or for worse._

"Tales of walking skeletons and wights. How childish," Hoster chides his brother, chewing on the last piece of meat. He glares at the old knight. "All these fantastical tales, warning us of powerful and monstrous they are. And yet you," he points his knife at Blackfish, "have taken it upon yourself to bring them here where you could've dealt with it at Harrenhal. Hypocrite."

The insult stings, but Blackfish takes it. "But we can't return to the past, brother. I'm sorry that it's not what you want, but what's done is done."

Hoster sighs. "Yeah, Brynden... Bring me the pact you made, I'll need to examine what you wrote."

Brynden gives the papers on the table to Maester Vyman, wo then gives it to Hoster Tully. The Lord Paramount leans back in his chair, pouring over the text. As he reads through them, his face breaks into a satisfied grin. "Hah, you've done quite well in making this agreement, Brynden. For a knight, that is."

"I've learnt from the best."

"Of course you did. Maester, bring me a map of the Riverlands."

With that, the men in the solar will not rest until dawn.

**Raventree Hall - 295 AC  
**

Tytos Blackwood's return to Raventree Hall is uneventful. As a raven was sent back, no welcoming party was prepared for the returning soldiers. There's no victory to be celebrated; if anything, the pact they've made is anything but honourable.

Entering the walls of the castle, Tytos leads his men deeper into its heart: the Godswood. At the centre of the area is an enormous dead weirwood tree, with thousands of ravens adorning its branches like black leaves in the dead of night. Walking towards its base, the area around the tree is clean of any bird waste; not a single one of these birds would defecate on the tree or in the Godswood. The same can't be said for the rest of the castle, much to the chagrin of the groundskeeper and visitors.

Standing before the massive gnarled face of the heart tree, Tytos dons his raven-feather cloak. Taken from the Godswood itself, he wears the piece with pride. "Men of House Blackwood, men of the Riverlands," he begins. "We saw many things during our short excursion to Harrenhal, and I know the need to tell tales with your family and friends. However," he turns towards them, "I need you to understand. What we've done there, what we saw... None of it shall leave our mouths. Though many of you don't worship the Old Gods, and for those that do we are standing beneath a dead canopy, heed my words all the same. Swear by the heart tree that everything in the past week will be forgotten. That you will NOT speak of it." His voice booms across the Godswood, breaking the tranquillity of the night. Crows above him caw and laugh. "With the Old Gods and crows as witnesses, swear this by your heart."

All the men voice their promises to the dead tree, though Tytos knows that not all would keep the secret. Sooner or later, rumours will spread. He can only hope that none of it will affect his authority; the sanity of a person witnessing a speaking skeleton is oft-regarded as poor, after all. Fantastical.

As the soldiers and knights finish their vows, Tytos motions his son to come to him. In view of the heart tree, he hands the boy a small bottle full of the blood-red substance.

"What's this, father?"

"Something to be used in an emergency, Brynden," he clasps his son's hand. "Promise me to never reveal it to others and always keep it to your side. Understand?"

The boy nods warily.

"Good. Now, be with your mother for supper, I'll join you soon."

Tytos stands alone beneath the tree. Raucous before, all the crows and ravens have gone silent. Their piercing gazes seem to judge his very soul. The tree has been dead for thousands of years, ever since the coming of the Andals and the poisoning by House Bracken. It has become known as the place where the Old Gods die, a stain in House Blackwood's existence.

But more recently, House Blackwood has taken a different view. For the Old Gods never stay in one form; they are in everything in this world. Kneeling before the great throng of ravens, Tytos begins his prayers. "My son's safety, my house's prosperity, and the good of the Realm. May the Old Gods watch over us all." Opening his eyes, he sees a few ravens watching him closely, perching on the roots. Tytos reaches out to pet one on the head and receives a painful bite. He chuckles. _How ungrateful._

The supper is eerily tame, the weight of the vow still apparent in their mind. Though he makes small talk with his wife Marissa, no conversation about Harrenhal is uttered. His son keeps their focus on the food.

In the quiet great hall, Tytos uses the opportunity to gather his thoughts. Even after receiving the gifts from that thing, he still finds the pact quite disconcerting. _I understand Blackfish's need to heal the Lord Paramount, yet there should have been better ways to go about this. I wonder, if Hoster Tully is to heal, then what would that man have in mind?_ He remembers a time when the Lord Paramount was still well in body and mind. Tytos was just a lord's heir back then, but the Lord Paramount's cold gaze is deeply etched in his mind. Him and his maester's.

Finishing his meal, he leaves early for his solar, determined to discuss future steps with his master-at-arms and maester. If conflict is to ever arise between the Realm and the Empire, they need to be ready. _Magic,_ he thinks, _it'll be hard to build strategies around it. What kinds exist in the first place? Damn, it'll be hard just to convince soldiers of the fact._

Entering his solar, he only finds a large raven atop his desk. Its feathers have aged, yet are strangely familiar to him. The window's not even open. "How did you get here, raven?"

"STARK!" it caws.

"Starks?" He looks at its feet, yet there are no messages attached. _Wait, is this perhaps a raven that remembers messages? I've seen one before, I think._ "Alright then, speak to me raven. What of the Starks? What does Lord Eddard want?"

"STARK! STARK!"

"Hmm... Are you just a raven then?" The bird jumps around his desk, fiddling with quills and papers. He reaches out and pets its head. To Tytos, it doesn't seem... Normal. He's not sure why, but he can feel it in his gut. "Other than just saying Stark, do you have other tricks beneath those feathers of yours?"

"Death."

Tytos stands beneath the canopy of the dead weirwood. There is no castle around him; only the Godswood and the heart tree. His breath fogs the air, even on this warm summer night. The tree has no face, and thousands of yellow eyes peer from above. _...How did I get here?_ The raven perches itself in front of him, eye-level. It has three eyes. His body shivers. "What do you want, bird?"

It caws at him, yet the sound is not that of a crow. It's like a man, croaking and raspy with age. Opening its mouth, words spill out: "There will be death for all men."

Now Tytos stands atop the battlements of a large castle. Snow and bodies of men are falling all around him. Yet in this furious blizzard, he still sees things. Dark, massive shapes moving behind the veil of cold. Howling. The crow is flying above before landing and pecking away at the eyes of a corpse. He trudges forward in the deep snow towards the three-eyed raven. The body... He recognises it. Though bearded and aged, it's none other than his son, Brynden Blackwood. An arrow sticking out of his eye.

"Lord Tytos, are you alright?"

He blinks. Tytos is in the doorway of his solar, tears trailing down his face. His master-at-arms and maester look at him worried. "Lord Tytos," the maester speaks, "I think you're tired from your travels. Perhaps we can have this meeting tomorrow, so do please get some rest."

"Nonsense," he answers, wiping away the tears. The haziness in his mind is still there, but slowly fading. "I'm fine, Maester Paston. The meeting will proceed like normal." No raven is in the room and the windows are closed. Yet, he still remembers it all vividly... "Maester, please prepare a raven for Winterfell."

"Yes, my lord."

Inking his quill, he ponders for a moment on how he should inform the Starks. If he's too forward with his experience, he doubts that their good relationship will prevent the Starks from dismissing his message. _By the time it reaches Winterfell, the meeting with Hoster Tully would've been finished. Maybe I should inform Lady Catelyn Stark as well; the involvement of the Tullies is important.._

With that, Tytos writes his message.

_Warden of the North, Lady Catelyn Stark,_

_Greetings from Raventree Hall._

_I hope this message finds you well. There are strange happenings in the Riverlands. A group of invaders have established themselves on the grounds of Harrenhal. To prevent conflict, Ser Brynden Tully has made a pact with the invaders, and is now planning to hold a meeting with them at Riverrun._

_However, I suspect foul play from these people. The invaders are not one to be easily trusted, for they possess something akin to the dark arts. We know not the full extent of their military, but they are still capable of causing damage._

_I advise you, Lord Eddard Stark, to prepare for an invasion from the South. Though I don't expect them to be able to cross the Neck, it's best to be prepared._

_I pray to the Old Gods and the New that peace shall remain in this Realm._

_Lord Tytos Blackwood._

Finishing the letter, he sighs at the work before him.

_Dark wings, dark words._


	7. The Muddy Tides - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As one of the denizens of Nazarick slacks off, the other has to pick up the work left behind by their companion.

**Harrenhal - 295 AC**

"Yep, just move it over a bit to the left there and- Oop, there ya go~!"

With Lupusregina's command, the [Death Knights] place down a carved stone block into a notch in the floor. The piece fits like a glove. A bug called [Rock Spitter] lines the seams with its saliva, sealing the stone.

A dozen other stone pieces are being laid down in precise shapes and patterns, making sure that the finished result will look amazing for the Supreme Being. She has the Guardian of the Sixth Floor, Mare Bello Fiore, to thank for all of this. If it wasn't for him, the work of just mining and cutting the stone would've taken her forever. Usually she would refrain from asking help from others; she takes pride in her work, after all. But upon receiving Momonga's words and gift, she had a change of mind.

_I need to prove myself that I'm worthy of such gifts! And if that means I'll have to work differently, then so be it._

It was the first time Lupus ever met face-to-face with the Floor Guardian; they never had the chance during their time in Yggdrasil. Moreover, Mare is technically her superior as well, so asking help from him was somewhat nerve-wracking. Luckily, Mare is quite shy so it was easier for her to talk to him.

He didn't even open the door that time when talking to her, though she could hear the rustling of blankets. But it only took the idea of receiving gifts from the Supreme Being that he opened the door. _The look on his eyes when he saw me wear that ring... Man, that boy can be scary~_ And so, the two work together for the glory of Ainz Ooal Gown and the Great Nazarick Empire.

With Shalltear's own [Death Knights] helping them, the work should be done much quicker. In the space of a month, two-thirds of the tallest tower is finished with the others approximately half-done. However, the two still can't decide on what the interior should look like. She had the idea of making it fitting for the Overlord of Death: bones, spikes, and a dash of flavour from the Tenth Floor. However, Mare wanted it to look forest-like. Something about creating a regal display, yet Lupus has the suspicion that the dark elf just wants to grow some trees.

They wanted to ask Momonga for his opinion, but as he's on the way to an important meeting at Riverrun, they decided against it. Of course he also brought along Shalltear, so they're unable to get a third opinion on the matter either. _Though Shalltear being chosen for this trip... Ah, I wonder how the Overseer will react to this? No doubt it'll be amusing~_ Lupusregina smirks. The petty squabbles between Albedo and Shalltear are pretty useless; in her mind, there's already a clear winner here. _Then again, he did give me a ring as well._ She keeps the thought to herself.

"Hey Mare, how much stone do we have left for today?" Looking down from the tower, she can still see several undeads carrying stones.

"Oh, ah um," Mare fidgets, "I carved out fifty-seven blocks and regrew some of the oak. So, uh, I think we have about thirty left for today."

Lupus lets out a whistle. The creation of those blocks requires a lot of brute strength and mana, let alone regrowing the trees; she doesn't have the spells for that. _But I shouldn't expect less from a Floor Guardian,_ she grins. Beneath his waiflike and clumsy appearance, Mare, along with his sister, are formidable. They were given life by the Supreme Being Bukubukuchagama to make the enemy fall into a false sense of security, something even Lupus enjoys doing.

_Besides, nobody in Nazarick can be considered weak. Not even Victim... Oh, speaking of weak and frail~_

"Mare, hold down the fort a bit."

"Wait, uh why!?" he exclaims.

"It'll be quick. Just need to take care of my little pet, that's all~" With that, she jumps down from the battlements, leaving the flustered Mare behind.

Falling through the air, she casts [Complete Invisibility] on herself before landing softly like a cat. She sees the old woman standing near the gates, holding herself up with a walking stick. Lupus approaches her, listening to the conversations between Shella and the guards. However, it's just some boring stuff about food supply and such. _Y'know, Nazarick can easily provide that if you just kneel to Momonga-sama._ But Lupus knows why the old woman is reluctant: she does not like the Supreme Being. No, more than just that. In conversations she would call him a monster, a beast, a creature fit to be slain. Insults, all of them. Even now, listening to them talk, the guards and Shella exchange blasphemous words.

Lupus kicks the cane from under her, causing the old woman to fall over. As she tries to get up, the maid pins the crone down with her sceptre, pushing it into her spine. The woman screams in pain as Lupus twists the sceptre in glee. At last she releases Shella, allowing her to be carried off by the guards to her private quarters.

_Bad dogs get punished~_

Lupus stretches her arms; her entertainment is gone now. Not wanting to fly back up to the tower, she decides instead to head out and see the world around her. As a Pleiades Battle Maid, she never left the Tenth Floor until their coming to this world. But upon setting foot on the surface, she now understands why the Supreme Being love the sky.

The air feels fresh. Though the Sixth Floor does have a plains and wooded section, this one she's in is real. The greenery, the mountains, the wide expanse of it all... _It should all be under Momonga-sama's control, but these stupid humans have laid claim to it first._ She wonders at what the Supreme Being has in store for them. With his powers and intellect, he would have no problem ruling over their undead corpses. However, he has taken great sacrifices to prevent any conflict with these human lords; gifts, agreements, even sparing the life of the old woman!

She shakes her head; there's no use in trying to discern his true intentions. Even Demiurge is in the dark for their master's movements. And if he's in the dark, there's not much Lupusregina can do to shine a light upon it. _All we need to do is to serve him well when the orders come. Yet,_ she rubs the ring on her finger, _for such a simple task... I will not disappoint him!_ Eager to please, she transforms into her wolf-form and stretches; it has been a long time since she has done this. Her fur feels fluffy in this summer air, though the weapon strapped to her back feels a bit awkward.

She sniffs the air and runs towards the smell. The scent of fire, the scent of people. The scent of prey. _There should be a town south of here. Harrentown, was it? How unimaginative~_ She overheard from the old woman that the town lies inside the lands of Harrenhal, and as such should belong rightly to Momonga. But the conversations of the guards begged to differ. Apparently, the town's mayor has gathered mercenaries, or "sellswords" as the humans call them, to protect them from the Supreme Being's welcoming embrace. They even built walls and spikes, intending to repel Nazarick's undead. Just the thought of that sends her into a rage, increasing her pace.

Within minutes she arrives at the town gates. At least, what she assumes to be Harrentown since she can't read a word of their sign. Sure enough, a ring of walls and a small, man-made moat have been built surrounding the town. She could just jump over it, but decides to take a look around first. As she circles the town, she notices that though the northern section of the walls are well-put-together, the same can't be said for the southern part. Sections are still unfinished, with men and women putting up planks and boards for the fortifications. She sees behind them buildings taken apart, no doubt to help the building process.

Lupus snickers. _To think that these humans are so desperate. Ah... I should play with them. Just a little~_

Invisible, she jumps over the moat and walks into the town. She watches them with the curiosity of a little boy with an anthill. Though the ones near the wall are serious and almost frantic in their motion and intent, most of the inhabitants seem to be just leading their normal lives. Fruit sellers and small markets are attending to their stalls, children are running about, a cat is trying to eat some leftover chicken bones... Though not what she considers clean nor sanitary, people are living the good life here. Whether they be guards, fishermen, spinsters, or any other, all are living comfortably. _What a quaint little town._

_..._

With a howl, Lupusregina reveals herself in the town square to the screams of the horrified populace. Grinning, she leaps and grabs a fishmonger by the arm, tearing it off with a single bite. Swallowing it whole, she looks for more, leaving the man to die.

"D-Direwolf! It's a fucking direwolf!"

"C-Call the guards! Get me the hounds!"

"Everyone back inside! Quick and lo-" Before the woman could finish, Lupus bites her neck and rips off her head, crushing the skull between her massive jaws. The woman's children stare in fear at the brown-coated wolf. As blood and grey matter drip to the ground, she sniffs their terrified faces. She smiles, showing the gory remains of their mother between her teeth.

"Run."

The kids break off running, screaming and crying about a talking wolf. She chuckles at the pathetic sight. Looking around, most of the people have taken shelter in buildings; some brave souls are peeking behind closed doors. As she's about to charge into the largest one, she hears the clangs of armoured footstep. Turning around, a company of men decked out in armour and weapons approaches her. They form themselves at a narrow street, shields up and spears at the ready.

Lupus licks her lips. Eager for a challenge, she charges to meet them head on. The men flinch upon seeing the running wolf, closer to the speed of a horse than any dogs they know. They let loose crossbow bolts, only to have them bounce off of her furry hide. Realising this, they put up their spears and brace for impact. She leaps over the group and lands behind them, to the horror of the men.

With their slow reaction, Lupus bites into the first man easily, their woollen gambeson offering no resistance. A man charges at her with a sword but is thrown back with a headbutt. She leaps forward and crunches his skull, splattering blood on his terrified allies. A spear tries to jab into her side, only to be brushed off. "What are you," is all he could say as Lupus tears him open like a can with her claws, breastplate and all. Two dogs nip at her tail and legs. She kicks them aside, dashing their guts on the walls.

As she continues her rampage, Lupus huffs and puffs excitedly. No, she's ecstatic. All that time cooped up on the Tenth Floor, never encountering any battles, all of it; it's behind her now. In this new world, she can revel in bloodshed of the humans; the pride as the first Pleiades Battle Maid to spill blood.

One by one, men fall. Ripped open, torn asunder, crushed; the streets have become a scene of carnage. Before long, half of them are dead and some have fled. Guts and limbs litter the ground as she approaches the last three remaining men. Two men wielding spears, and another heavily armoured with a shield and sword. _Ah, a knight or nobility are you? My my, leaving all that protection for yourself. What a bad leader~_ She cackles, causing the men to reel and shiver. It'll be easy to kill them, but that's not what she's here for. She's here for terror. For chaos. For _fun~_

"I ain't dying here to some fucking beast!" shouts the armoured man. "Bracken! Jonny! Lower your damn spears and aim at its heart!"

"B-But, we don't know whe-"

"It's in its fucking chest you godd-" Lupus grabs the leader by his leg and throws him into a fish stall. With a snarl, the other two men flee. She closes in on him, watching the man slowly sit up from the pile of cod and trout. Trembling from her gaze, he starts to beg. "P-Please, I," he whimpers, "I don't know i-if you could understand but- Ah fish! Yes, you're hungry right!?" He holds up a smashed piece of cod to her snout. His face withers upon seeing her smile.

With a strong bite, she sinks her teeth into his shoulder, punching through the steel-plate armour. Howling in pain, the man draws his dagger and frantically stabs into her mane to no avail. As he starts shouting some nonsense names, she twists her head, breaking his shoulder blade and ribs. As the man's screams die down and his blood pools around her paws, Lupus lets go of the man. She then casts [Minor Healing] on him; not enough to heal the damage but enough to stop his blood loss. Satisfied with her little play, she turns invisible again and dashes out of town.

At the gates of Harrenhal, she transforms back to her maid form only to realise that she's completely drenched in blood and mud. "Ugh," she groans, "I really need to clean up." Though her pride as a Pleiades Maid tells her to take a bath, her werewolf instinct urges her to lick herself clean.

_Hmm, I could take a little break~_

**Harrenhal - 295 AC  
**

Mare sighs in defeat. _I knew this would happen... I knew and let it happen._

From Lupusregina's [Message], it's clear that the Battle Maid will not be joining him again today. He rocks back and forth, fidgeting with his staff. He wants to stop her from doing anything rash, but her attitude and mannerisms just remind him of his twin sister Aura. That stubbornness and easy-going nature are hard for him to fight against.

It's why he got dragged along this project in the first place. Mare doesn't enjoy the bright sun nor the chilly winds atop the broken tower; he'd rather spend time in his room reading books under a soft, comfy blanket. But the ring on the maid's finger, the [Ring of Ainz Ooal Gown]...

It was extremely nerve-wracking trying to present their plans to Momonga. Just the sight of the Supreme Being alone sent him into a flustered and nervous wreck. He stuttered, jumbled up the castle's name, and may have let his true intentions slip. He nearly cried when the overlord of death patted his head, saying that he appreciated Mare's effort and willingness to help in the betterment of Nazarick. He didn't expect such kindness from such a fierce and powerful Supreme Being.

He still feels shame from the fact that his involvement in all of this stems from his selfish desires. That's why, atop the tower battlements, he swears to himself: his body and soul shall forever go towards the Supreme Being and the Great Nazarick Empire. No selfishness!

...

 _Well, maybe a bit is alright. Momonga-sama did say that it's always good to strive for a reward. But oh, what kind of rewards though? The ring is ni-_ He claps his face. "Focus! Just make sure the work's done for today." And that means going to the quarry of stone just outside of Harrenhal. Mare leans forward, looking down from the steep drop of the tower. The humans down below look like ants, so easy to trample. So weak, unlike Mare. The fastest way down is to just jump off like Lupusregina. _But..._

Mare is many things; a fan of tall heights is none of them. His creator, the Supreme Being Bukubukuchagama, made him the polar opposite of his sister: scared, shy, and easily nervous. He might be a Level 100 Floor Guardian, and thus will be unhurt from the small stunt, but...

 _No!_ he screams internally. _I have to do this! Change myself for the greater good of Nazarick._ He steps forward, a foot over the ledge. _For Momonga-sama!!_

_..._

Mare dashes down the broken stairways of the castle, passing by many undeads and cobwebs. As he runs down the many flights, tears flow from his eyes. "Stupid, stupid!" he whimpers in the dark. "Why can't I just get it right!?" His fears overcame him then on the ledge. But he's confident. Confident that if Momonga orders him to jump, he would. _I would, right? It's just because this is all so new to me. If it's in his presence, I will NOT make a mess!_

Finishing his self-assurance, Mare steps out into the bright daylight. Shielding his eyes, he sees that his skirt and staff are covered in dust and cobweb. Dusting them off, he remembers the words of the maid Lupusregina, how appearance is everything and to always look presentable. Even if those he has to look presentable towards are just some humans.

_Why are they still living here anyway? Don't they understand that this is Momonga-sama's castle?_

In truth, their master's intentions are beyond the scope of what he could understand. Mare tried asking Demiurge, but the demon was still trying to gather his thoughts on the matter, leaving the dark elf completely blind. But Mare does understand one thing: Momonga may have a bit of a soft spot for the humans. In Mare's eyes, his master's immense kindness and pity is the greatest gift he has ever bestowed on those humans. Mare... kinda see that? He's not like his companions who would go the extra mile for pain and bloodshed, so he doesn't hate them. _I just find humans less interesting than books, that's all. They're uncouth, stupid, short-lived, smelly..._

 _OK, maybe I don't like them after all._ He sighs. If he's to earn a ring, then tolerating those humans is a must. At the very least, tolerating the ones in this castle that's serving Ainz Ooal Gown. _Even if they're not taking his grace to their hearts,_ he frowns.

Gritting his teeth, Mare briskly walks through the castle grounds, passing by many humans and undead. He's careful not to trip again and make a fool of himself. Seeing him, the knights and guards give him a wide berth; they know what happened last time someone mocked him. The man was lucky he died so soon. Yet, he still hears whispers sometimes that insults his authority over them. How he's but a "little boy" that doesn't know better. Though insulting, he smiles a bit at their foolishness; he's older than most of them.

But the longer he's around them, the more insults he hears about the Supreme Being. Some anger him, like calling his master a child slaver. Others are a bit more puzzling, like calling Mare a "Children of the Forest". Mare keeps his cool. Momonga is on an important trip, thus there's no need to disturb the Supreme Being with some silly news of the human's dislike of him. He'll just make a report to Demiurge; he's sure that the demon has a fitting punishment for those people.

... _Do they know nothing of elves?_ he thinks to himself. _Elves are of nature, so maybe they've just mistaken them as something else?_ Their poor knowledge regarding the basic, common races of Yggdrasil baffles him. _Wow, they are stupid._

Mare enters one of the lower towers; the Widow's Tower, if he recalls correctly. _Hmm, we'll need to rename it to something more fitting for the Supreme Being. Tower of Dread sounds nice..._ Undead and insectoids are rebuilding and reshaping the broken great hall into a greater glory. He can see the patterns on the walls and floor starting to take shape, decorated with the emblems of Ainz Ooal Gown and the 41 Supreme Beings. When it's all finished, the floor would be polished white marble. All that's missing is the throne. He doesn't support Lupusregina's idea of making it like the Tenth Floor; they already have the actual Tenth Floor, so it's redundant. Besides, this throne is not to replace that one, it's just an addition to the Supreme Being's glory.

He took great care in trying to design the throne; he referenced not only the Tenth Floor's [Throne of Kings], but also old designs taken from books in Ashurbanipal and the cultural aspects of this world. What design he ends up with is a throne of living weirwood, ever-growing and ever-lasting. Its white bark to complement Momonga's bones, and red leaves to signify his power over death. _Even those humans can't help but bow before the Supreme Being,_ he imagines, squirming in delight.

All he needs to do is find a living weirwood; that's where he meets a wall. When the tomb appeared in this castle's "godswood", as the humans called it, it had displaced any trees within the confines of its wall. From what he hears, there's an island in a lake south of here that has a lot of weirwood. It should be easy to go there, but his master said otherwise. To avoid possible conflict with the humans or others, he decreed a restriction of movement for denizens of Nazarick to stay within the lands of Harrenhal. _How kind of Momonga-sama to think of our well-being,_ Mare smiles, cherishing the notion.

Even so, Mare is confident that he can survive anything these humans throw at him. Observing the human warriors, he estimates them to be just around Level 10. Weak. Even weaker than most of the spawning enemies in the Great Tomb of Nazarick. _So odd for them to be so weak. Don't they know how to get stronger through [Experience] and [Levels]?_ He almost pities those humans, but is reminded of Demiurge's words.

 _"Humans are like ants,"_ he recalls. _"One, ten, or a hundred, it'll be an annoyance. Yet even more, they can turn crafty. Damaging even."_

And that's why he always needs to keep an eye out for them, lest they congregate and cause trouble. Mare sighs. _I wish Lupusregina were still here. At least she enjoys listening in on people. I don't even like talking to them._

Nevertheless, he has a duty. Exiting the throne room, he eyes the shortest tower, his next destination. Though currently occupied by the human's previous leader, even that one is damaged. _Oh no, there's still a lot to be done then! We have to fix up the walls, fix up the towers, get the throne ready..._ He slaps his cheeks again, regaining focus. Those are tasks for another time; he's here to observe their leader.

"Uhm, excuse me," he opens the tower door. "I'm coming in."

As the undead are fixing up the tower's upper floors most of the human's valuables and furniture have been sent down to the ground floor. Now, the hall looks quite full with couches, tapestries, rusted armours, and old emblems of long-dead families. Most of them are in bad shape, and to Mare should've been thrown away long ago. Sure, there's some gilded armour and decorative swords, but none of them are worth anything close to things in Nazarick. He pities them; the best they had was walls and lands, and they're now taken away as well.

At the centre of the hall is a large four-poster bed, decorated with frilly curtains and several quilted blankets. Shella Whent is being taken care of by a maid who's applying some smelly ointment on her back. As she turns to look at Mare, a flash of fear appears on her face before relief. "Oh dear, it's just you, Lord Mare," the old woman sighs. "Take a seat wherever you like, Lord Mare. Oh, Mia, please fetch some drinks for us."

The maid bows and looks at Mare with fear before running out of the room. "U-Um, hiya Shella." He sits down on one of the cushioned chairs next to the bed. Observing her closely, he finds the woman to be quite frail for someone of her age. As far as Mare is aware of, humans age faster than any other races. Even dwarves could outlast their lifespan by at least two-times. _I guess that means she'll die soon,_ Mare thinks happily. "How are you feeling today?"

"O, just fine sweetie," she smiles at him. "I had a bit of a fall, that's all. Hurt my back a bit. That's what you get for getting as old as me." The woman's friendly tone is only shown to Mare, not to the other denizens of Nazarick. She holds a very condescending view of him, seeing him as nothing more than a small child being used by the tyranny that is the Supreme Being. To Mare, this couldn't be further from the truth. The woman's barely older than him after all. Yet, he never tries to correct her. As he's often reminded by Lupusregina, his childish appearance lulls the enemy into a false sense of security. And if that will help him better Nazarick, then he must exploit it to its fullest.

It's from here that she reveals to him the treacherous and blasphemous things she said about the Supreme Being. She believes that Mare holds the same view as her. When he initially heard her words, he wanted to kill the woman. But upon Lupus' suggestion, he let her live. Her loose lips may prove useful in Nazarick's information gathering. Besides, a [Shadow Demon] is already present in her shadow just in case things go awry. And so, he must endure hearing insults about the one he loves the most.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Miss Shella," Mare lies. "I-If you want, um, I could cast a healing spell on your wounds."

"Oh, there's no need for that, Lord Mare," she bows her head. "You're too kind." This is what frustrates Mare the most with these humans: they know absolutely nothing about magic. Every time his master suggests using magic to better their lives, they refuse. They cite humbleness, but Mare sees fear. Fear of his master's kindness. _Not only that, but her worship of this Seven... Isn't that blasphemous? They should be worshipping Momonga-sama, yet I've never heard prayers to the Supreme Being. If all they worship are these false gods, then making them used to magic will be a lot harder._ Mare sighs. _At least with lack of help, they'll die soon enough._

For all the wit and wisdom she displays, her prejudices seem to be the greatest downfall in Mare's eyes. _What was the term I read again? Rose-tinted glasses or something?_ Whether that be seeing magic as inherently harmful, or seeing Mare as nothing more than a harmless little boy. "You know, Lord Mare," she speaks softly, "I never see why you like that monster. It's not even human."

 _I'm not human, look at my ears!_ he wants to correct, but refrains from doing. He needs information, and with Shalltear away, there's not an easy and direct way to extract it. At least, one that won't leave her as a broken mess, that is. "He's powerful and cool, you know... A-and kind as well!" And Mare truly believes that. He's not his creator, sure, but he's very much deserving the title of the Guild Head of Nazarick, now Emperor.

"Of course you see it that way," she scoffs. Mare tries his best to hide his distaste, but even he lets out a frown at the insult. "Oh, don't be like that, Lord Mare. It's just... You're so young. I'm sure there are better people to follow out there than that thing." The maid enters the room and hands them their drinks. It's some sort of concoction with herbs and honey. "Thank you dear."

"You're welcome, Lady Shella," and she hurries out the room.

"My my, she's off rather quickly," the woman smirks. "A bit silly if she's scared of you, but maybe she's just like Pia and plays around with men. Hah... I do miss being young."

"How so?" Mare asks.

"Oh, I was a precocious girl you see. Unlike you, I had a great deal of freedom and met lots of people. No overbearing figure above me." _There it is again... Another stab at the Supreme Being._ He grips his magic staff in anger, but keeps his calm. "Of course, I had a bit of fun as well. You're too young to understand, but I played around with some of the knights."

 _I'm not sure by what she means too young. I've done combat sparring with Cocytus and my sister before, but I never took her for someone that wants to spar with knights. Does she possess martial techniques? I guess appearances do lie._ "Oh, really Miss Shella? What did you do with them?"

"Ach, em, well... It's too early for you, Lord Mare. They were just some guards under House Whent, so no one in particular. Though, I did have some experience with some Tully and Stark knights. Only a few were ever good though," she sips her drink. "Oh, what am I rambling about to a kid..."

 _Starks... Where have I heard it before?_ Mare is not used to this kind of information gathering. He has to watch the person's expressions, find out their motivations, read behind their words, and so on. He's not Demiurge; he much prefers to read books and maps. But with the whole library burnt down, he's stuck with this kind of intel. A part of him really wants to give her to Neuronist and be done with it, but then he remembers his master's orders to not harm the humans. _I guess this is the challenge that I must overcome for my reward then._ "Starks? That's uh, that's a weird name."

"It's only weird since you have not lived here, Lord Mare," Shella answers, condescension lining her tone. "They're an old house, the Starks. The Warden of the North, currently led by Eddard Stark. An honourable bunch, unlike those vipers in the stinking capital. I reckon that's why they're so friendly with the Blackwood. All family-focused men."

There's a lot of names and titles to keep track of in this New World. Many are most likely going to be useless, but he doesn't know how to discern which from which. "Wow, the North? I heard it's a big and, um, cold place. How could he rule over all of that?"

"Unlike that monster," _another insult,_ "Lord Eddard Stark is beloved and respected in the North. They protect the commonfolk from raiders and wildlings, after all. Even went so far as to provide men for the Wall. You know, they- Ouch!" Se leans forwards, rubbing the base of her spine.

"A-Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Lord Mare. Just need a bit of rest, that's all." She lies back onto the bed, her form sinking into the blankets.

Mare still wants answers. Who are the Starks? What is the Wall? What are wildlings? What about the viper snake-people living in the capital? But it's clear that from the woman's discomfort, he's not going to get more answers out of her. With that, he excuses himself and leaves the tower. He needs to write all the things he has learnt down and give it to either Demiurge or the Overseer.

_Albedo... She hasn't been quite right ever since the humans' visit to Harrenhal. I wonder why?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated on 01/03/21


	8. The Muddy Tides - Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the day of the meeting, and Momonga has travelled all the way to Riverrun with Shalltear. But even in this brand new world, there are still connections to the old.

**Riverlands - 295 AC**

_Ahh... So this is what luxury feels like!_

The black carriage has been on the road non-stop for about a day. With [Soul Eaters] pulling the carriage, they have no need to feed or take a rest at nighttime. But their guide is still human. Luckily for Momonga, the man is satisfied with not having to do much driving. [Soul Eaters], after all, are more intelligent than horses and follow direct commands. As it is currently at night, he can hear the man snoring in the driver seat. Shalltear wants to wake him up for being rude, but Momonga stops her, reminding her that humans have their drawbacks. Besides, there's no need to overwork that man. In Suzuki's experience, overworking is the great insidious killer of the corporate world; no need to repeat that here.

Wanting to relax for the trip, Momonga opens the window to the beautiful world outside. Stars shine bright in the sky, scattered as far as the eye could see. No smog, no acid rain, just the beauty of nature. Suzuki never expected to see such vistas in his life, but here he is as Momonga, enjoying what his old world had brought to ruins. With his [Dark Vision], he can see the forest lining the roads as clear as day. Trees both great and small, towering over the landscape. He can see small villages in the distance, most of their lights snuffed out for the night. Rivers run clear freshwater, one that could drink right from. And the air... Even without a nose, it still feels so crisp and clean, as if giving life back to his undead bones.

_If the Three Great Corp. ever found such a haven... Well, I'd rather not think about it._

In the middle of the carriage is a pile of books taken from the Nazarick library Ashurbanipal. Though it's mostly full of copyright-free materials and in-game summoning tomes, there are other interesting books as well. In his hand is the book "The Time Traveller's Guide to Medieval England", about half-way done and full of dog-eared pages and sticky notes. Others deal with things such as politics, some books about economics, and a few about how to do business deals. Some of those were pirated into the library. Momonga was reluctant to do so back in Yggdrasil, citing the harsh punishments for digital pirates, but his friends assured him of their method's safety. And since none of them left due to getting arrested, it's proof of their success, whatever they did was.

_Of course, I don't think copyright laws apply here... Right? Or does Nazarick still maintains that dreaded copyright system? God, I have to check that in the future..._

Even so, Momonga is still unsure if reading these books will amount to anything useful. This world is not medieval Europe, if tales of dragons conquering the nations are to be believed. He had never seen these huge castles either, whether it was on Wikipedia or other encyclopedias. But everything from their armour, their mannerisms, their designs, all of it scream the familiar medieval fantasy. _I'll have to get books on etiquettes then. Maybe they'll have it in that castle Riverrun._

It's easy for him to read without rest; being an undead has its perks. This will be his last book of the trip before he would need to reread all the earlier ones, all of which have little notes inside as well. But it's awkward to do this in the carriage. For most of the trip, Shalltear sat there across him, smiling and watching him read. Not a single word was uttered by her. Like a creepy porcelain doll, she doesn't even blink, making it quite an uncomfortable reading experience. Even writing notes felt embarrassing, as if someone was secretly scoring him.

 _Maybe...Maybe she's bored out of her mind? Does she hate being here and that's why she just keeps on staring at me? But, she was quite happy when I asked her to accompany me._ He was initially thinking of bringing along the Seventh Floor's Guardian Demiurge; he's probably the smartest and most cunning of all Nazarick denizens. But he changed his mind: wouldn't it be strange to show his host people they're unfamiliar with? He needs to foster a good relationship, and for that reason he chose Shalltear. Makes sense as well for she was the one who conquered the castle.

Demiurge didn't take it as an insult. If anything, he praised Momonga for some unknown reason, citing his "great wisdom" in choosing Shalltear. He also helped Momonga placate Albedo who seemed... Agitated with Shalltear as his companion. For all he knows, there's some underlying issues between Shalltear and the Overseer. _I know Albedo is technically her superior, but to have such a reaction to Shalltear is definitely strange. I'll have to find a way to deal with that later, but I don't know much about co-worker relationships. I was more of a loner in the previous world, at least in terms of the physical one. Online though..._

_That's it!_

Momonga closes his book and looks at Shalltear. He reckons that with maybe enough small talk, he'll be able to find out what's making them tick. Maybe quench the apparent anger beneath that smile as well. "So, Shalltear."

She looks brightly at him, displaying her long fangs. "What is it, Momonga-sama?"

"Well, how goes the work on the castle?"

"Oh, it's going splendidly, Momonga-sama! It was hard gathering the materials, but with Mare's help, we should finish it in no time! I've been sending instructions with [Message] to my [Death Knights] through our journey, so I think a lot has been done today as well!" She puffs out her chest, clearly someone who takes great pride in her work.

"...You've been doing that this entire trip?"

"Yep!"

 _That's... That's too much! God, this is just like when I was younger. Doing a lot of work in hopes of a reward, yet never getting it. I sacrificed all my breaks and off-days for that and earned nothing at the end of it all. Don't tell me this is the cause of her strife with Albedo. Does she view her as the one giving her so much work? I should be at fault here!_ "Shalltear, have you been feeling tired lately? You know, with all your responsibilities?"

"What? No, Momonga-sama! I'm happy with this great task you've given me. I'll make sure to do my utmost best!" she proclaims.

"...Shalltear," he calls sternly, gaining her undivided attention. "It is important to not overwork yourself. You and all of Nazarick need to take breaks, have some fun in your own time. I heard from Lupusregina she was playing around, so why couldn't you? In fact, right now is your break."

"But Momon-"

"No buts. Break. And no to [Message] instructions either." He needs to break this strange working habit if the Great Nazarick Empire is to prosper. What kind of nation would it be if all his children are unhappy?

Shalltear accepts the decree with a bow, looking somewhat saddened. "Yes Momonga-sama. But, what should I do now?"

 _...Oh yeah, undead can't really go to sleep._ "Well, breaks are usually spent doing something you like. But as we're in the carriage right now," he lies down and uses a few books as pillows, "just relax and watch the stars. Read a book, maybe."

"Hmm, alright." She settles herself on the carriage chair, carefully balancing her large skirt on the seat. She looks much more relaxed, her hands crossed over her chest. If anything, she looks like a corpse at peace. "This is nice..."

"Mhm." Momonga continues reading the book. However, soon after he can feel the gaze of Shalltear boring through his skull. "What is it Shalltear?"

"I was just wondering if, uhm, you have a reading recommendation for me?"

"Books, let's see..." He sits up and sifts through the pile. _What kind of books would fit her? No, these ones might bore her to death. Even I didn't read "Business Negotiations for Dummies" with any sense of excitement. Wait, there is one..._ "Here Shalltear, you can read this one," he hands her the book he's currently reading.

Though surprised, she reaches across the carriage and accepts the book. With a huff, she opens the first page and begins reading.

 _Well, I hope that'll settle her down. My notes shouldn't distract her that much._ With that out of the way Momonga reaches for a random book and begins re-reading it. _Ahh, politics... My favourite subject._ Though he can feel occasional glances at him, it soon fades away in the background as he's engrossed in the book. _I really should practice better handwriting, I'm so used to typing back in my previous worl-_

His thoughts are cut off when the carriage suddenly jumps up, toppling some of the book pile. When he glances out the window, he still sees the carriage moving along at great speed. _Are the roads really that bad?_ he wonders. From his understanding, though the people in this world have taken great care in building magnificent castles, most of the infrastructure is left wanting. The castle doesn't have much in terms of a proper water supply, having come from either rivers or wells. There are no pumps nor a proper sewage system. That's one of the main aspects of this castle renovation he wants to add: a proper plumbing system. He's not an engineer or architect, but some of his friends were. Nubo, one of his past guild members, was a public works employee. He had interest in old architectural diagrams and added a whole lot of Ancient Roman stuff in Ashurbanipal. He even suggested that the whole of the Sixth Floor be done in the style of a Roman sewer system; they compromised on an amphitheatre instead.

Momonga sighs at the thought of his former comrades. As head of the guild, he was the only one left during Yggdrasil's shutdown. Only Herohero came to say his goodbyes, and he never stayed behind. Of course, Yggdrasil was just a game. They had real life to work on, not some game that's already reached its peak six years before its death knell. He expected the guild activity to decline from there.

But he misses them. Even now, with his emotional suppression working against him, he still feels pained in his nonexistent heart. He misses their long arguments about what dungeons they should raid next. How they would spend several real-life nights planning on taking down a rival guild, or how they managed to conquer the Great Tomb of Nazarick in one attempt. The kind words of Touch Me, the insufferable antics of Luci★fer, all of them had helped him go through dark times.

And now they're gone.

It's just Momonga now.

 _No, I'm not alone, am I?_ He looks over to the figure of Shalltear, still engrossed in the book. Shalltear carried on some of the personality quirks of her creator Peroroncino. In fact, all the other denizens of Nazarick act similarly to their creators. _Yet, does she miss him? Don't all the other denizens miss their creators as well? Would it be better if it were someone else transported here, someone more capable than I? Am I..._

Shalltear, sensing a great heaviness in the air, sits up and looks worried at Momonga. "M-Momonga-sama! Are you alright!?"

A sudden wave of calm washes over Momonga, suppressing all of his sadness and guilt. _There it is again..._ "I'm fine, Shalltear. Just continue your break."

"...A-Are you sure?" He can hear a crack in her voice, as if she's about to cry. Hopefully, she'll hear none of his.

"Yes. I just need a little bit of a break, that's all."

Though she lies back down with Momonga's assurance, she doesn't keep her focus on the book. Instead, she looks at him like a child would at their distressed parent.

_Way to go Momonga... You make your children worry for you. God, I would never fit to be a parent in the real world. I'm not even human anymore._

By the time the sun rises, he hasn't even finished reading his book. Neither could he remember a single thing he just read through the trip, his mind being too preoccupied with thoughts about his future. Looking out the window, he sees the great, blue expanse of rivers stretching before them. At one of its forks, he sees a fairy-tale castle seated on its shore. With its conical towers and flying banners, it reminds him of images in a children's book. Though not as great as Harrenhal, it still carries a sense of nobility and magnificence.

He can see a small company of men ready to greet them on the river shore. A decorated boat floats along the coast, their ride into the castle. "Alright Shalltear," he calls out to the vampire, straightening out his clothes. "Let's make a good first impression."

**Riverrun - 295 AC  
**

"I think that's them," Blackfish points out the approaching black carriage in the distance.

"For someone claiming to be an Emperor, they sure like to arrive at such ungodly times," Hoster Tully replies, yawning at the morning sun. "Also, such a small carriage for a large ego, Brynden. Wouldn't an Emperor refuse to settle for anything less than a large wheelhouse?"

"I think it's the same carriage as Ainz Ooal Gown's messenger during our encampment, brother. It's still quite lavish in design."

"I see, so they lack in carriage variety. Interesting..."

"Or they simply want to arrive here early," Blackfish replies.

"Well yes, that too." It was Hoster after all that suggested they to have the greeting party on the shore a day early. He explained to Blackfish that their guest might want to surprise them by arriving early, thus shaming the host for their unpreparedness. His prediction rings true.

As they get closer, Blackfish sees that the Empire's entourage still consists of those blasted skeletal horses. Well, he sees what looks to be a normal man on the driver seat, yet he doubts if he has any control over the creatures as he's not even holding their reins. "Stick to the plan and follow my lead," the Lord Paramount whispers to him before the two ride up to meet their guests.

They've dressed quite well for the occasion. Blackfish has forgone his knightly garb into something more befitting of the Lord Paramount's brother. Long, leather boots and fancy breeches line his legs. His shirt and coat is made out of fine silk, bearing the colours of his coat of arms. A large black trout is emblazoned on his chest.

Hoster Tully wears a woollen cloak and vest bearing House Tully's sigil, owing to his advanced age. Golden fish clasps on his shoulders hold the cape in place whilst a silver and golden stag pin decorates his chest, signifying his loyalty to the Baratheons. Both men feel a bit out of their comfort zone in these clothes, but they must endure them. If their guests have declared themselves an Empire, then it's fitting to clash greed with greed.

Blackfish had explained to his brother the appearance of those monsters, yet the Lord Paramount still frowns upon seeing the horses up close. But this soon disappears; he's always good at mummer's farce.

But his facade falls apart once the carriage door opens. Though the young girl's appearance soothes his expression, what comes next does not. Blackfish sees his brother's eyes widen in shock before his body freezes and shivers in fear. The guards and knights behind him let out terrified shouts and yelps, rustling their weapon and armour. Even their battle-hardened warhorses neigh and snort at its sight, eager to run away. If Blackfish hadn't met the thing before, he would've been inclined to do the same. He calms his own horse and looks upon the visage of the Stranger before him. "Greetings, Lord Paramount of the Trident," the creature announces in a regal tone. "My name is Ainz Ooal Gown, ruler of the Great Nazarick Empire. I have come for the discussion of the future of our nations."

The declaration breaks Hoster Tully from his fearful stupor. Quickly regaining his senses, he bows his head at the creature. "I'm honoured to have you as an esteemed guest of Riverrun, Lord Ainz. And please, let's not be so formal as fellow rulers. You may call me Hoster if you like." The Lord Paramount has prepared quite a lot of the dialogue ahead of time. In his view, most conversations would follow similar beats and paths, and by planning ahead of time one can control its flow. Just like a river. _Makes me wonder what other conversations are planned. Are our everyday talks planned in advance as well, brother?_

"It is good to see you well, Hoster Tully. You look lively, unlike the rumours being spread around by people of House Whent." _Oh, so it's the Whent's fault now?_

"Well, Lord Ainz, I think you had a hand in my wellbeing. Thanks to your gift, I feel a decade younger!" the old man says, laughing whilst flexing his arm. The creature joins in as well. The efforts to try and lower the monster's guard is... Interesting. Whilst his brother plays like an eel hidden in mud, the creature is more like a rock. Unreadable. _Is it truly laughing, or is it fake emotions? Does it even have emotions?_

"My brother, Lord Ainz," Blackfish cuts in, "I think it's best to continue our talk at Riverrun. I'm sure you are all tired from your journey."

"Yes, I'm still tired as well so early in the morning," Hoster replies, yawning quite loudly for an effect. "Though, I must warn you Lord Ainz. As my castle lies on a river confluence on the Red Fork, we will require a boat to reach it. So, I'm sorry but your carriage may not be able to be brought to the castle grounds. But rest assured, my men shall keep watch on the shore to protect your transport." While it's true that the boat they're using is much too small for a carriage, it's not the largest boat they have. As elegant and royal as the one sitting here, yet large enough to carry a full entourage and their steeds.

"I see... That will be fine."

"Do not worry, Lord Ainz. My men are capable of preventing any distasteful individuals that might come after your carriage." Of course, that's not all the reason those men were there. The first set would be questioning the Whent soldier that came along as the carriage's guide. Perhaps there's useful information there for Blackfish. The second is to assess the nature and capabilities of the skeleton horses, and in the future plan a way for them to be easily killed. _Those things have no flesh, so I doubt arrows and poisons would amount much to them._

As they near the moorings of the boat, both Tullies descend from their horses. Blackfish whispers to his brother: "do we still keep the supper?"

"I'd keep it," Hoster replies, stepping onto the boat. "At least the girl has flesh on her body."

Blackfish glances back at her. Though she's smiling, there's a hint of sourness in her expression. Whether that's towards the monster or the Lord Paramount's manipulations, he does not know. He avoids eye contact with her; the way she looks at them is unnerving. For now, he needs to focus on extracting information discreetly.

The boat they have chosen is quite elegant in design. The sides are carved with picturesque waves and fish leaping from the waters, and the sides are decorated with wooden statues of carp. Dark wood helps to make the silver medallions stand out. Some of the finest artisans and craftsmen of the Realm helped create this beauty, and yet their guests barely spend more than a glance looking at it. _Not impressive enough, huh..._

They enter the boat and head to its centre booth. Inside, glasses of wine have already been prepared. Hoster sits facing the boat's stern while their guests face its bow, ensuring that they have a nice view of the river. Interestingly, the girl sits next to the monster rather than the adjacent seats. _What's their relationship, I wonder? Is she the monster's attendant?_

He can feel the boat start to move. Blackfish offers her wine which she takes readily, drinking half of the cup in a single gulp. _Alright, hopefully this will loosen her lips. It's your chance now, brother._

"How do you like the wine, Lady..."

"Lady Shalltear Bloodfallen, Hoster Tully," she answers, taking another sip of the wine. "Ah.. It is a nice drink you have here. Rather sweet for my liking. What is it called?"

"Arbor gold, my lady. One of the finest wines of Westeros."

"Really? Well, I may need a few more if you wouldn't mind." She giggles, setting the empty cup on the table. Blackfish refills it and she continues drinking without thanking him. As she swirls the golden wine, he notes the ring on her finger, one that he didn't notice the first time they met. It looks similar to the one on the creature's left hand. _It's clear that she's not a lower-born, but what is the significance of that ring? Is it some sort of status symbol, one that the Emperor would wear. If so, why is she wearing it? Gods, I need to ask Maester Vyman lots of questions._

"It's a treat to see my guests happy, Lady Shalltear. I always strive to prepare the best," Hoster replies, sipping his own cup. "If it's not rude for me to ask, Lady Shalltear, what is your position in this Great Nazarick Empire? I'm not familiar with your nation and I see that you are quite close with Lord Ainz. I simply don't want to call you by the wrong title, that's all."

Shalltear looks at the monster for a moment before giving her explanation. "Well, I hold the title of Floor Guardian of the First, Second, and Third Floors. Forever in service to my dear Ainz Ooal Gown-sama." She seems quite proud of the titles she just recited, yet none of it makes sense to either men.

"I can assume you're not familiar with such positions?" the monster asks.

"I'm quite sorry, Lord Ainz, it does not ring any bells."

"Well, how should I explain it," the monster rubs its chin. "You see, it's not dissimilar to the rulers and titles that are present in your land. As ruler of Nazarick, I am comparable to that of your kings and queens. Floor Guardians, which guard and rule over sections of the empire, is a similar position to Lord Paramount. So it can be said that Shalltear here holds similar privileges and strength like your rule, Hoster Tully."

 _So the monster equates my brother to this Shalltear... What a load of horse-shit! Is he trying to show that the Lord Paramount is not worthy of his time? That he must speak with some shadowbinding little girl if he wants to create negotiations!?_ Blackfish keeps his thoughts to himself. Calming himself down, he refills the girl's cup for the third time. He watches closely her haughty expressions and laughter. It infuriates him how these invaders would look down on their hosts.

"Is that so." Hoster holds true under the monster's gaze, it's appearance no longer as surprising to him. "It's rare to see a woman hold such a high position. Perhaps in Dorne, but even then it's somewhat of a rarity. What part of the world did you hail from?"

"East," the monster replies. "Far, far east."

_An answer that answers nothing. So these invaders don't want to talk about their origins. Are they exiles in their homeland?_

"Ah, east! I have a few soldiers that hail from there as well. You should meet them, perhaps you might know one another." A smart move on his brother's part to see if what the monster's saying is true or complete fabrications. In truth, they have no soldiers from the east; all of them are Rivermen. But if the creature can't discern between them...

Blackfish realises that his bottle is now empty. "Excuse me while I fetch another bottle," he says, heading out onto the deck. Looking over the bow, he reckons that they're about halfway to the castle. Not much time left for their little questioning. Though he's hesitant to use it, he decides against his best judgement and pulls out the bottle hidden underneath the ropes. A bottle of arbor gold with slight additions by Maester Vyman. _It should be tasteless and untraceable, but I doubt that girl would notice. She downs her drinks like a sailor to no ill effects._ He knows how dishonourable it is to do this, especially to a little girl. But he reminds himself that these are invaders, not native Westerosii. Their code of honour is not bound to them.

Entering the room he finds his brother laughing, quite jolly and red-faced whilst lifting his cup of wine. _Would have been a damn good mummer,_ Blackfish thinks, refilling his brother's cup. Their guests stay calm and relaxed, not carried by Hoster's laughters and jokes. The monster ignores them all, simply staring out of the window. "Enjoying the view, Lord Ainz?" Blackfish asks.

"Yes, Ser Brynden." There's a tinge of sadness in that creature's voice. "I've never seen a river so blue and clean."

"Do they not have rivers like this where you came from, Lord Ainz?" Hoster asks.

"They used to be abundant. However," the monster's voice deepens, "some have taken it upon themselves to ruin such beauty. Now, every river there is black with acid and poisons. And all those responsible did nothing to fix it." It digs its claws into the table, leaving jagged marks.

"That is disheartening to hear, Lord Ainz. I can assure you that none in this Realm would ever dream of committing such heinous acts. And if they do, well, we might see it fit to hang them."

"Me as well, Hoster Tully. What you have here is not to be squandered."

 _So the monster comes from ruined lands... I've heard of destroyed and abandoned cities, but not tales of rivers turning black. There's nothing like that in Essos... The Doom? No, it couldn't be!_ He's reminded again of the girl's beautiful Valyrian looks. Her long, silver-pink hair is tied into a ponytail by a bonnet. She does carry that signature Targaryen look, but she would still stand out among them. Her canines stick out of her top lips, and her skin looks as pale as a doll. But what stands out the most is the girl's eyes. _Like shimmering rubies... I wonder how many men she has entranced with her beautiful gaze, falling for her charms and soft words. Of course with her looks, how could one resist her? That deep red of hers must have beckoned many to their-_

"BRYNDEN! We're here!"

Blackfish snaps out of it, his head throbbing from a sudden headache. He looks around and sees his brother glaring at him, barely holding back his fury. "What, ho-"

"Get out and prepare the gangway."

Still confused, he heads out the door and sees that they're already in Riverrun's dock. _Wait, we were just halfway to the castle..._ Quickly now, he pulls on the rope and moors the boat to the dock. Many have gathered to see their arrival, including Maester Vyman and Septon Lucas who will be accompanying their guests. He sets up the gangplank and gives way to their guests.

As the monster is the first to exit, the people around them start to yelp and scream at the sight. "Make way for the honoured guest of Riverrun!" Blackfish shouts. With that, the crowd bows to the four and quickly disperse, eager to not be in the monster's presence. Vyman and Lucas manage to keep their cool. _I should commend them for their bravery later._

"Good morning, Maester Vyman, Septon Lucas," Hoster greets them, holding on to his decorated cane.

"It is great to see you healthy, my lord," Vyman bows his head. He looks at the monster, keeping a smile on his face. "I am grateful for your help, Lord Ainz. If it wasn't for your potions, then the Lord Paramount would have been unable to be with us right now."

"Yes, Lord Ainz. May the Seven bless you," adds Septon Lucas.

The monster waves it away. "It is of no effort for me. It's important for us to foster a prosperous relationship, so please see it as a sign of good will."

"Yes, the future is bright, Lord Ainz. However, it is brightest at noon. Since there's plenty of time before our meeting, I would like to eat breakfast first. Maester Vyman, Septon Lucas, would you care to show our guests around the castle?"

"It will be an honour my lord."

"And Brynde, let's talk a little about our preparations in the boat. Shall we?"

As their guests leave and enter the keep, the Tullies enter the boat room. Once inside, Hoster slams his cane into the old knight's chest, sending him sprawling on the floor. Blackfish winces in pain. "...I see you have your strength back, brother."

"Enough jests, Brynden," Hoster jabs his cane onto the floor. "Why did you speak?"

"S-Speak wh-"

"Don't play stupid with me. You were running your mouth to that damn girl like some nervous greenboy! You nearly spilt all of our plans and I had to stop you from fucking talking. I embarrassed myself enough times in front of them, so let me ask you again, Brynden." The old man pushes down on Brynden's shoulders with his cane. "Why?"

"I-I don't know what you're talking about. All I remembered was her face and, and..." _And what? What did I do? I can't remember anything from the wine onwards, why!?_

"Geh, to think you'd stoop so low, Brynden." Hoster lifts his cane, allowing Blackfish room to breathe. "Should've married that Redwyne girl, then you would have known how to control yourself around women. And that Shalltear is just a little girl, have you no shame!?"

"Brother," Blackfish catches his breath. He needs to reason with him. "Maybe... Maybe that girl used magic."

"Magic?" Hoster scoffs. "I saw no such thing from her."

"How do you even know what magic looks like, brother?"

With that, Hoster has gone silent. He looks calm, peering out of the window. "The dark arts," he says, leaning on his cane. "Maybe that's why she could make you speak. Perhaps why she never got drunk either. Brynden, make sure that every part of our plan goes smoothly. I will not tolerate any mistakes." The Lord Paramount exits the boat, thumping his cane on the wood. The old knight is left alone.

 _No apologies, no thank yous, no nothing,_ Blackfish sighs. _Oh, how great it is to see you back to normal, brother._ There's still a lot of work to be done. Assessing the horses of the Empire, verifying the girl's involvement in Harrenhal's fall, finding out things about magic...

_This will be a long two days._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated on 01/03/21


	9. Intermission - 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little intermission between the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update. My computer is being a little bitch and tries to kill everything. Maybe will get a new one in the near future.
> 
> Updated on 01/03/21

**King's Landing - 295 AC**

To say that Varys hates magic would be an understatement. No, Varys absolutely _loathes_ magic. The only ones who could hold a candle to his hatred are the Archmaesters of the Citadel and the Faith of the Seven, though for very different reasons.

Both of those institutions enacted strict policies regarding magic. One shouldn't be able to practice them and they would be unable to learn about it either. They're quite happy to spread the lie that magic does not exist, simply things in fairy tales and myths. But Varys knows better. He knows that it exists for he had witnessed it himself during his days as a slave in Pentos. The shadows and voices when his manhood was thrown into the flames... The eunuch knows better than to question their existence.

That's why he very much enjoys Westeros. No magicians in the streets, no open practising of maegis and mages. Here, he's unshackled from his burden in Essos.

Yet fate has many ways to be cruel.

The man standing before the Small Council is no other than Marwyn the Mage, an Archmaester of the Citadel. But unlike the others, he does not hate magic. From Varys' whispers, the stout man is an expert in the dark arts, having travelled even into the secretive lands of the Shadows to expand his knowledge. He's not one to be trifled with.

In his hand is a long Valyrian steel staff, taller than its wielder. A symbol for an archmaester learned in the ark arts, yet that's not what fascinates him. Affixed to the top of it is one of the dreaded dragonglass candles of the Citadel. And it's burning. The bright blue flame catches everyone's attention, bathing the room in an ocean glow. _So the whispers are true then,_ Varys gulps, _magic has returned._ Looking deep into the blue, he remembers the mage in Pentos. And like that ritual, he sees things in the flames; dancing, laughing, frightening.

"...Archmaester Marwyn, was it?" Robert asks, still reeling in from his shock. "Have... Have you brought wildfire into the Red Keep?"

"This is no alchemical pyromancy, your grace," the man replies, showing his discoloured teeth. "No, this is magic of the old world, of Valyria."

Grand Maester Pycelle's eyes widen. Varys can see fear in the old man, perhaps recognising the candles from the ones in the vaults of the Citadel. _How many decades must have it been, Pycelle? To see the greatest challenge of the maesters be overcome right in front of you must be terrifying._

"Valyria... Home of the Targaryens, those fucking dragons." Robert turns to Pycelle. "What was that saying with magic and Valyria?"

"The last embers of magic died with Valyria, your grace," Pycelle answers, stroking his white beard. "And with the last dragon's death, all of it is lost."

"But I can assure you, Pycelle, that magic has returned to this world. These candles are proof of that."

"Ah, Archmaester Marwyn, how can you be so sure?" Pycelle smirks. "Weren't you unable to light a single one during your initiation ceremony? Tell me, how should the Small Council trust your judgement of this supposed 'return of magic'?"

"Lest you forget, Pycelle," the Mage's voice hardens, "I am an Archmaester of the deeper mysteries. You know nothing of the dark arts as my knowledge of it far surpasses anyone in the Realm."

"You seem to forget the reason we have those dark vigils, Marwyn. It is meant to keep people like you humble, not for you to parade it around for everyone to see!"

"The candles are alight, Pycelle. Nothing you say can ever change that fact."

As the two continue to argue, Varys ponders what should be done to the Archmaester. Though the man looks healthy, there's a bit of paleness apparent in his face. Whether that's a trick of the light or an effect of the candle, he does not know. Varys knows nothing of the dark arts. He has heard shadowbinders slowly wasting away after each conjuration, yet he can't be sure if that's what's happening to Marwyn.

 _So, what should I do with this man. If he's found dead in his inn, surely even Pycelle would be quite happy. But the man might expose me for he knows my hatred of magic._ He looks at the Grand Maester, now in a shouting match in front of the Small Council. All that air and facade of a frail old man is gone; he was never one in the first place. Pycelle has always been quite close with the Lannisters, helping Robert to enter King's Landing unimpeded. _I can't risk being suspected for foul play. Perhaps it's best to leave him alive for now._

"Would you two please shut the fuck up!?" Robert shouts, silencing the maesters. "Gods, all this arguing is giving me another migraine..."

"Sorry, your grace," the two bow, but still glaring at each other.

"Good." Robert unclasps his wineskin and proceeds to drink half of it, much to the dismay of his brother Stannis. Belching and wiping his mouth, he addresses the Archmaester. "Now, Archmaester Marwyn, I doubt you just came here to argue with Pycelle. Especially with that _thing_ you're carrying."

"Of course not, your grace. The Lord Paramount of the Trident had requested for a maester with Valyrian steel links. As it is so rare to see such a demand, I decided to head there and see the situation for myself."

Robert pauses at the mention of the Trident. "Does this have anything to do with Harrenhal?"

"I fear so, your grace. Their message expressed concerns of the invaders wielding the dark arts."

The words lay heavy against the Small Council. Though most are inexperienced in magic, they know enough to fear its use. Stannis seems to be the most fearful out of everyone present. Knowing the man's relationships with his new faith in R'hllor and the shadowbinder Melisandre, he's most aware of its implications. _At least he knows enough to truly fear it._ Robert, however, slowly grows angry, the wineskin in his hand close to bursting. "Those blasted INVADERS!" He slams his fist down on the table, causing everyone to flinch. "Corrupting my realm! I see it fit for all of them to be executed!"

"Your grace, the Tullies-"

"I know about the damn Tullies, Stannis! I just-" Robert stops himself, swallowing the words he's about to shout. Taking a few deep breaths and tapping his fingers on the table, he calms himself down. _I see the King is taking the Hand's advice to heart. Though it's good that he's not waging a war, I can't have that through his reign._ "Spider," the king calls, "explain to me the situation in the Riverlands. I'd like to know the full story before doing anything rash."

"That is wise, your grace." Varys bows before addressing the Small Council. "As we are already aware of, the invaders are led by the one named Ainz Ooal Gown. Yesterday they met with the Lord Paramount of the Trident and by now should have returned to Harrenhal. Though we still don't know what terms of agreements they've made, I've received whispers and a drawing of what the Ainz Ooal Gown looks like. I think you will find this quite intriguing."

The King raises an eyebrow before motioning Varys to provide the image. He pulls it out of his sleeve and hands it to Robert. "Before opening that, your grace, I can assure you that the one who drew the image is skilled. There's no need to deny its accuracy."

The King opens the parchment and takes a long look at it. He looks at Varys and then back at the drawing. "The fuck is this?" the King growls.

"That is Ainz Ooal Gown, your grace."

"Is this some sort of joke, Eunuch?"

"No, your grace."

Robert crumples up the parchment and throws it to Stannis. The Master of Ships opens up the drawing and scowls at the image. "This... Looks like a skeleton dressed up in some strange clothes." He hands it to the Grand Maester, eliciting a similar reaction.

"A product of a hyperactive mind, I would say."

"Or illusions," Marwyn cuts in. All turn to him for an answer. "You see, there is magic that can create illusions upon being seen by others. Glamour, if I recall. I've seen it done in the House of the Undying in Qarth and the Faceless Men of Braavos. They use it to trick others and lead them to their doom, so I don't see why Ainz Ooal Gown wouldn't cast it upon himself. Cloak his appearance to that of a monster, making everyone fear him."

"I see... So he's one to hide his appearance and sow terrors into the soul of his enemies. A ruthless enemy to be sure, but there may be connections to Essos then. What else, Spider?"

"This may be disconcerting, your grace, but I have reason to suspect that the Lord Paramount may have been influenced by the invader."

Robert's eyes widen. "In what way?"

"It was common knowledge in the Riverlands that the Lord Paramount was a sickly man, often confined to his bed. However, when Brynden Tully visited Harrenhal, he brought back gifts contained within a chest given by the invaders. Whispers say that it's full of bottles filled with strange liquids. Not a day later my birds tell me the Lord Paramount became healthier. Such a sudden one as well since the man did not need the help of his maester anymore."

Though Robert stays calm, there's fire in his eyes. He looks at Marwyn, demanding an answer.

"Hedge wizards throughout Westeros have experience in healing through magic, your grace. It is not unthinkable for the invaders to have access to such healing arts, though I don't know what kind it is for I have not seen it myself. I suspect it is some sort of medical concoction if Lord Varys' whispers are accurate," Marwyn smiles.

Robert stays quiet, tapping his fingers on his temple. He drains his wineskin, splattering some documents on the table in red. "So what you're saying, Lord Varys, is that the Tullies are not to be trusted?"

"I did not say that, your grace. I merely suggest that we are to be cautious."

"Hmm... Maybe I should send someone to represent me and watch over them." The King sighs and deflates in his seat. _Now, who would Robert send? Not everyone in the Small Council is present: Renly's back at Storm's End, Petyr's in his brothels, and Jon Arryn is asleep. Pycelle is always needed at court, so he's not up for consideration. Stannis must return to Dragonstone. That leaves the Kingsguard then. Not Ser Barristan for the man is the Lord Commander. No, it must be someone close to the royal family, skilled as well. That only leaves-_

"Ser Jaime Lannister!"

"Yes, your grace," the young Kingsguard steps forward. Varys can see the similarities between him and the Queen, his green eyes especially. _Of course, there's also the matter of the royal princes and princess, but I'll keep that to myself for now._

"Go in my stead for Riverrun and act as a representative of the Iron Throne. You will accompany Archmaester Marwyn here on his journey as he is already planning to go there. Is that alright, Archmaester?"

"I'm glad to be of service to your grace," Marwyn bows. "I can sleep soundly knowing that the Kingslayer shall protect me."

"Good. Now then, prepare your leave."

The two men bow before leaving the Small Council. Varys can see Jaime's little wince as he walks away. _Don't like to be away from your queen for too long, huh?_

"Gods, first the Targaryens and now these invaders. Does the Realm ever know peace?" The King leaves for his quarters with the Kingsguard and Pycelle in tow. Varys retrieves the crumpled manuscript and places it back into his sleeve. Satisfied, he gets up from his seat and-

"Lord Varys."

"Yes, Lord Stannis, is there anything I can help you with?" the Spider smiles at the balding man. The king's brother doesn't return it.

"I believe you have been withholding some of your whispers, have you not?"

 _Oh dear._ "I don't believe so, my lord. All my whispers are-"

"Lord Varys, I'd rather you tell me the truth now or bear it with my brother as a witness." This is a direct threat to Varys. As a master of whispers to the previous king, there's not much that he can do to clear his name if Robert is to go and see it fit to execute him. He's in quite the predicament.

Varys sighs. "Alright then. Though, I much prefer to do this in a more... Private setting. If you can follow me please." With that, the two men exit the room and head down the Red Keep's labyrinthine halls. _I'd rather keep the information regarding the invader girl to myself for now, but perhaps I can convince him to keep quiet about this. Oh, what a bother..._

Truly, fate is quite cruel.

**Harrentown - 295 AC  
**

Rickard wakes up in a start, clutching at his bandaged arms and chest. Though most of the pain has subsided, he still feels a slight burning sensation now and then. Realising that he's in his bed, he sighs and sits up, feeling light-headed and nauseous. The dreams he just had was an unpleasant one. One full of teeth and fur. _Gods, be it invaders or beasts, the town is going to shit..._

When was it that the town guards found him lying broken beneath the fish stand? Two, three days ago? It feels much longer to him. A hedge wizard had come by to treat the wounded, but upon looking at his mangled form, they refused to treat him since they believed he would die soon. But he persevered. Through violent convulsions and screaming fits, he survived.

They feared that it was the Madog disease that had struck him, passed down from the wolf. When they discussed whether or not he should be put down, he fell into a deep sleep. Though he had high fever then, his wounds slowly healed and even the broken bones mended itself. When he woke up, there was no thrashing or biting. Only hunger. Hunger and thirst.

And now the fever is gone. His body still aches, but he's alive. The same can't be said for the rest of his men. _I should get up, there's someone I need to see._ Rickard can feel his joints scream in pain as he walks slowly through his room, the direwolf's beating having taken a toll on him.

He dresses up in his usual town-guard gear: tunic, mail, helmet, and his brand-new spear. Exiting the house, he sees that the market is already full of people. Even after the chaos brought on by the beast, life is already getting back to normal. Well, almost. Walking through the crowded markets, he hears the call of prayers of the Seven. At the town centre lie dozens of shrouds, surrounded by groups of the mourning. _Fifteen people by one direwolf,_ Rickard thinks bitterly, walking past the crowd. _If we're this complacent, how can we ever hope to stand up to the invaders?_

"And by the name of the Warrior," he hears the septon speak, "lest those slain in battle shall be rewarded. Furthermore..."

Rickard ignores the prayers for they have lost all meaning to him. He heard it far too often before. Looking over the many shrouds, he finds him. A body about as tall as he is lying at the edge of the group. He kneels down and lifts up the shroud covering the face, revealing a dead man decorated in armour. "Rowyn," he whispers. He was a young and handsome man when alive, his golden locks and blue eyes shining in the sunlight. He always had a way with words that Rickard just can't explain.

_But now he's gone..._

The man's face is unrecognisable now, one of the many guards that had fallen to the beast's rampage. The one Rickard had failed to kill. The one Rickard had begged to spare his life from. He takes out a coin from his pocket and places it on the man's broken face. _A final gift for you. Farewell._

He places back the shroud. As he stands up, he sees familiar faces among the crowd. Lysa the weaver, Tammy the pub owner, and even the little kids who used to steal his coin purse. All of them, weeping above the bodies. And Rickard too yearns for that release. The need to cry out to the sky and curse the Seven for taking away his love. He wonders, _is it not my sin to bear for failing to kill that thing? Was it not my fault that all these people die, that my lack..._

But then he remembers: he's not the only one at fault. No, it could be said that the blame lies not on him, but those that abandoned him and ran away. Was it not because of their desertion that he was left to die beneath a fish stall? Rickard turns to look at one of the guardsmen. He recognises the young and scarred face of Jonny anywhere.

With great strides, he pulls the guard into an empty alleyway, far from the watchful eyes of the crowd. Then, without answering the young man's questions, he punches Jonny and lifts him up by his collar. "Why did you run, huh!?"

"S-Ser, I... I have a wi-"

"That beast is a fucking direwolf you idiot! It's out there and can come back at any time. Why the fuck did you become so craven, huh!?" The young man is thrown down to the ground as Rickard pulls out his dagger. He holds it to Jonny's eye. "You better listen and listen well. Get hunters to go and track down that thing, we can't have it roaming around in some goddamn alleyway."

"We did Ser, we did!" the young man pleads. "We sent all the hunters to track it down, but its tracks just disappear."

"What do you mean disappear? It's a fucking wolf not some goddamn ghost!"

"It's true Ser! The track ended about the North Gate. They tracked one near your house but couldn't find anything as well, Ser. Please, I swear I tell the truth!"

Rickard glares at him before sheathing his dagger and shooing the man away. "Can't even kill a fucking wolf," he insults. To himself or the young man, he does not know. But what he does know is that the beast would add to their already mounting problems. That thing won't just kill sheep or cows; it has a taste for human flesh. It came alone, meaning that it's likely to not have a pack nearby. But doesn't mean that it won't cause damage again, for that thing looks to be even bigger than a normal direwolf. _Have there ever been direwolves below the neck? Gods, first time ever seeing one and it tears through my town... Will those damn sellswords know anything about hunting?_

He's reminded of the letter they received from Harrenhal. It was a short message, yet it made the town worked up and ready for war:

_Mayor of Harrentown_

_Lady Shella Whent lives. She may kneel to the invaders but her heart lies with the Realm._

_Prepare for possible skirmishes in the future. Raise your defences and train your men._

_These invaders will not win._

Who sent the letter? No one knows. However, they took the advice to heart, believing that their Lady still lives inside those haunted towers. Rickard could hardly believe that it was a Whent who sent it, yet he has to follow along. It could be a trap for all they know, but the townsfolk are too scared to find out. No one dares to go near that castle with stories of ghouls and demons about. And so they began building walls and moats around the town. It's not finished yet, but should hold up for how many invaders might be present in the castle.

But problems came about in terms of armaments. House Whent was never a prosperous house, meaning that most commonfolks in their land have few access to spears and armour. Rickard is lucky to have been a hedge knight, but even his equipment is lacklustre in quality. So, pooling in donations from scared merchants, the mayor went and hired a free company to aid them: the Brave Companions. It ate up all the town's budget for the year, but the mayor truly believed that it's necessary for the town's survival. Though the town is receptive to the help, they resent the sellswords for their behaviour. Led by a strange man named Vargo Hoat, they act as if they own the place, often taking food from stalls and never paying the merchants.

To prevent any further conflicts, the mayor told them to move their encampment onto the Isle of Faces. It's isolated enough for them to not disturb the peace, but close enough for them to move in a moment's notice. Some of the men stay in the docks, ready to transport supplies and messages. And that's where Rickard is going.

He walks up to one of the Brave Companions standing by near a rowboat. He's a gruff looking man, his long beard tied into braids and scars decorating his arm. He brandishes his axe upon seeing Rickard. "What you want, hedge knight?"

"I am not a hedge knight, sellsword. I'm Ser Rickard, head guard of Harrentown. I want to talk to your commander, Vargo Hoat."

"He's busy," the sellsword spits. "Come back tomorrow."

"This is an important matter-"

"Don't care. Leave." He hefts the axe in his hand.

Rickard turns his back to him, walking away from the boat, before dashing past the sellsword and hopping onto a rowboat. He ignores the man's shouts and kicks the boat off from the dock, sending him off. As he sees one of them draw a bow, he paddles away, narrowly missing it.

He needs to do this if the town is to be protected. They had lost too many men and the damn beast is still on the loose. He's reluctant to hire the other townspeople for he knows that they are mere greenhorns. At least, compared to someone like him and Rowyn. _Surely these men have capable hunters, though I hope they don't ask for too high of a price. I only have a few dragon's worth of possessions._

As he rows through the thin mist, he feels calm. The only sound is the creaking of the boat and the lapping of water. Strangely enough, his wounded arms and shoulders feel much better now. Even this constant rowing doesn't seem to tire him out, unlike other times in the past. _Maybe it's because of my long sleep,_ he ponders.

Before long, he sees the shore of the Isle of Faces. Tents and banners fly from its shore, bearing strange sygils of the black goat. _I've heard that their leader is from a land called Qohor. Such strange religions they have, worshipping some goat._ He makes landfall at a more secluded portion of the island under the cover of weirwood. Their carved faces stare down at him, as if gazing through his very soul. He ignores the odd feeling and walks towards the encampment.

He tries to keep himself away from any eyes, moving in between tents and horses. He's nearly seen by a drunk man, but luckily the man stumbled out of sight. Sighing, he continues to look for the leader's encampment. That's when he comes across a large, lavishly-decorated tent with strange striped horses tied to a nearby post. Large embroideries of black goats emblazon the walls of the tent. _This must be the place,_ Rickard thinks as he enters uninvited.

A man with a long, braided beard sits at the centre of the tent, slicing up some fruit. He doesn't take notice of Rickard, or perhaps simply ignoring his intrusion. "Are you Vargo Hoat?" Rickard asks.

"Who math be ashkhin?" the man replies, still focused on his sweet fruits.

 _That's him alright._ "The name's Ser Rickard Piper, head town guard of Harrentown. I come to request help."

"Heh," Vargo stabs the next fruit, pinning it to the ground. "Yu donth looh lakh the mayoth, so whe lithen to yu?" The man's lisps makes it hard for Rickard to understand what he's saying, but at the very least he can discern its content.

"I have gold."

"Goth? Ohh, then mahbe we can tath a bit." Vargo pats a nearby cushion, urging Rickard to sit down. Though he's still wary of the strange sellsword, Rickard sits down in front of his host.

"Vargo Hoat, I need hunters to-"

"Thhhhh," Vargo hushes. "Ho muth goth?"

"I will pay your men handsomely for their services. Ten gold dragons for hunting down a direwolf, and you may keep its pelt and meat."

"Ten, heh," Vargo rubs his beard. "Noth bad fo hunthin, yes. But thah not enoh fo me."

Rickard is shocked. _Not enough? That's my savings. How is ten dragons not enough!?_ "Don't be so greedy, goat. If I ask your men right now, they would gladly take up the offer. However, I'm asking you because you'll get a cut from me. Think of it as extra payment for helping to hunt down this beast."

Vargo looks at him hard in the eyes. "A cuth fom ye?"

"Yes, goat, a cut. Do we have a deal?"

Vargo chuckles. For a moment, Rickard thinks that he has failed the deal, but then the bearded man reaches out for a handshake. He sighs in relief for the deal is a success. "A cuth. Rah then," Vargo stands up. "Wha don a sho ye ma hunthes?"

"Lead the way, Vargo Hoat." _Hopefully the ones you show me are better than the ones in Harrentown._ They to exit the tent and walk to a more open area where men are feasting on meat. From the looks of it, the men have not cut down any weirwood for the flames but used other trees instead. They all turn to the two men.

"Oy!" Vargo calls out, taking their attention. "Thit man ofeth me a cuth!"

"A cut if you provide me with good hunters, Vargo," Rickard adds, watching the men laugh and move about. He observes which one of those men would be capable of killing the beast but doesn't see the one tackling him down from behind. Surprised, he struggles against his hold but is brought down as two more men bring him down. Another man ties a rope gag into his mouth, silencing his angry shouts.

He raises his head and sees Vargo brandishing an axe, admiring its edge and sharpness. Smiling, he approaches Rickard and gestures for the men to expose his right hand. "Ten goth ih lo, hege niht. But," he chuckles and raises his axe, "ho muth wil tha mayoth pe fo ye?"

"Hmmmphhh! Hmppphhh!"

"Ah don cah me a goat!" The axe swings down and severs his right hand, leaving a bloody stump. Rickard screams but a swift kick nearly knocks him out cold. He feels himself being dragged to a tree and tied to it, with someone tying cloth and bandages on his lost hand.

Slowly losing consciousness, he sees the laughing and dancing figure of Vargo Hoat. His hand is thrown around and displayed upon the tip of a spear.

...

_Hungry..._

How long has he been on this isle? A day? A week? No, maybe less. His right arm is still wet. He sees the faces of weirwoods staring at his miserable form. Moving, talking. He groans, barely able to move himself.

_...It burns._

A strong fever. Even in this cool moonlit night, his skin burns. He struggles harder against the rope, straining it, creaking and groaning. A few laughing men come up to him, with one pouring some brandy over his face. He laps it up, feeling the searing pain on his right arm. No, he wants more.

He bites hard on the rope, tasting his own blood. Again he strains against its hold, but now there's movement. The binding is starting to loosen. He claws through the fibre, chewing through the rope gag. Now people around him are shouting and barking orders. Spears are brought up, crossbows are drawn, and all the silhouettes gather around him. He tastes the rope, so dry and unappetising.

He needs more.

His right arm breaks free and he claws away the rest of the restraints. Several bolts land on his arm, but he ignores the pain. Another man charges with a spear, but Rickard moves, letting the spear embed itself in the weirwood. He looks at the soldier. No, is it a man? He's hungry. The face of a man, the body of one, the armour... But he's hungry. He snarls, and the terrified soldier breaks into a sprint.

Rickard gives chase. His steps leaps and bounds faster, he pounces and sinks his teeth and claws onto the man's arm. The taste of blood, so warm and fresh in his mouth. He pulls and tears his arm by the shoulder, the flesh dripping from the socket. The meat, so tender and savoury...

Several bolts embed themselves in his back, earning a pained yelp from him. He turns round and charges at one of the firing men, biting into their neck. He feels it rend in his mouth, the ever-tasty blood pooling inside. But he needs more. By the Seven, he's far too hungry now.

"The fuck is that!?"

"Warg! Fucking warg fucker!"

"Where's Vargo!?"

Surrounded by the spears and swords of the Brave Companion, Rickard lets out a terrifying howl.

And so, the slaughter begins.


	10. The Refreshing Rivers - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shalltear tries to observe the going ons of the castle in Riverrun. Of course, being the invaders, insults are abound.

**Riverrun - 295 AC**

"And this here. Lady Shalltear, is the castle's sept. This is where we pray and conduct the ceremonies of the Faith of the Seven."

"Is that so..."

Shalltear tries very hard to keep her enthusiasm on point. As she is playing a guest of some noble house, she needs to keep up her appearances to these humans. But after just an hour, the play is starting to falter. She sighs, wondering where her dear Momonga could be.

During their ride in the carriage, they planned to split their ways in order to learn as much as they can about the castle and the world it's in. By doing so, they hope to be more confident in the choices and moves they make in Westeros; it's best not to stand out after all. By sheer luck, the head of the house has prepared two people to guide them through the grounds: Momonga has chosen to walk with the Maester Vyman while Shalltear is left with the Septon Lucas. _I guess this is the new world's version of a priest, huh? I don't even feel much magic from him. Unlike Momonga-sama..._

Her mind still goes back to last night, where she saw her Supreme Being suddenly changed. Though it wasn't a physical one, she could still sense the aura he exudes: sadness, pity, guilt. Longing. She's worried about many things now. She kept quiet in trying to pry her beloved, knowing that it will be inappropriate for someone of her standing to question his statements. _Momonga-sama had said he was fine after all. Who am I to question him. But even so..._

There are still doubts lingering in her mind. It reminds her of the meeting all the Floor Guardians partook in that fateful night. After Momonga's declaration, Demiurge had explained in detail how it would be best to gift their Supreme Being. Eternal devotion is a constant, there's no doubt about that. _"However, there must be a greater gift for the one who cares for us all. How about the world he walks upon?"_

All agreed on that front: there is no better gift than all of existence itself. And so, they begin to work. The repairs on the castle were built on that notion; why would he want a ruin? It is better to give it in its full glory after all. The shadow demons have begun their information gathering across the land. Shalltear's undead is pacifying the areas around Harrenhal, making sure they have complete control. All is going according to plan.

_With all of this in mind, why do my beloved looks so lost?_ The though brings pain to her dead heart. _Does he miss the old world of Yggdrasil?_ She fears that though the conquest of the world would be feasible for a gift, Yggdrasil might be a lost cause. She understands this as teleportation is one of her specialities; this world feels much different from Yggdrasil. Much, much different. There's no connection to their original at all.

_If my dear wants to return, then nothing we can do will change his mind. However,_ she smiles, _I will make sure with all of my powers and more that he never wants to leave! He's not like those TRAITORS who have left him. No, he cares for us, love us, and it's only right to see it reciproc-_

"What do you think of it, Lady Shalltear?" the septon's questions break her from her thoughts.

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry, Septon Lucas," she covers her mouth and feigns a yawn. "I've barely slept on the carriage last night. Can you please repeat it again? About the Faith?"

"No problem, my lady," the septon bows. Shalltear can see the man sneak a glance at her chest before turning away. _For a man so pious and sworn to celibacy, you sure have quite the tendencies to ogle._ She wants to tear the man's eyes out of his skull and shove it down his ass, but she calms herself. It would be troublesome if Momonga is to find one of their host's servants blind and bleeding after all. She'll endure it all in the name of Ainz Ooal Gown, even from a human.

As they were being led around, Shalltear was quite unimpressed by what they have to offer. Though the castle does have some nice designs, in her mind, it pales in comparison to the glory that is Nazarick. The only things that interested her so far are the trace amounts of magic within its walls, though that still pales in comparison to the dungeons in the First Floor. _Truly, these humans have not much to offer to Momonga-sama. Ah, perhaps their corpses will be useful._

The section of the building she's in right now doesn't peak much of her interest. Though it looks quite different to the rest of the castle with its seven-sided room and crystal windows, not much can be talked about it. Even so, Shalltear continues on for the sake of information gathering.

"Within the faith," Septon Lucas speaks, gliding his hands along the white walls, "we worship seven aspects of a single being named the Seven Who Are One." He gestures towards one of the tinted-crystal windows depicting a young girl. "This one here is the aspect of the Maiden, who protects the innocence of daughters and maidens throughout the land. Many young girls such as yourself pray to her for marriage and safety.

"There are others of course: The Father is the one who judges all of us, his children. The Mother, whose love and care embraces all. The Warrior, whose courage and strength inspires all men in the Realm. The Smith, who mends the broken and creates the unyielding. The Crone, whose wisdom and knowledge surpass us all. And lastly, the Stranger, who we pray to never visit our homes." For each of these aspects, the septon walks under their respective visages on the windows. Shalltear watches him explain them with some confusion.

_Though he is a priest-of-sorts and we're standing in the gods' domain, I don't feel any divine energy here._ As Shalltear is not only undead but a cleric, she has some knowledge about divine powers. Hers are attained from her [Job-Class] back in Yggdrasil, allowing her to wield divine magic that's usually unavailable to the undead. Back there, if one is to become a priest, there would always be a divine connection with them. Yet, she senses none here. _Is this perhaps a false religion?_

"Do you have any questions regarding our faith, Lady Shalltear?" The man looks quite happy to have explained it to his guest. _More of a preacher than a priest._

Shalltear runs her hand along the window depicting the Stranger. "Ah, yes. I wonder perhaps if the Seven ever performed miracles of their own. Or, if they have given the priests power to do so."

The look on his face changes to that to confusion and worry. "Well, if you're asking whether our followers ever commit theatrics like those of the Fire God or the Drowned God, I would say no. Our faith is based on the idea that-"

_Haah... So it is fake then,_ Shalltear thinks to herself. _How useless. Well, at least that's one less thing to worry about I guess._ Tuning out the ramblings of the septon, she remembers her creator Peroroncino. He designed her around an undead [Cleric] and [Cursed Knight]. As such, her allegiance to gain the [Cleric] class relied on her worshipping a god. She doesn't actually remember the name of the deity, but she doesn't feel like she needs to. In her eyes, there is only one true god.

"May I ask," Shalltear interrupts the man, "I've heard that people also worship the Old Gods. Who are they?"

"Well, Lady Shalltear, the main religion in the southern part of Westeros is the Faith. However, up in the North, they worship the Old Gods as well. Actually, would you like to travel to the Godswood? I may not hold the faith, but I can still show you its worship."

"I would be very pleased, Septon Lucas. Lead the way." _At least it won't be as boring as just standing around here._

As they walk through the castle halls, Shalltear catches glimpses of men fighting through the window. Interested, she pauses and looks out. From her view in the taller section of the castle, she's able to watch about a dozen of men training in the yard below. Some are wielding wooden spears, while others using blunted swords. She sees that one man bears a striking resemblance to the old knight, but much younger in appearance. She can hear the commands being barked from where she stands.

"Are you interested in the training yard, Lady Shalltear?" asks the septon.

"Hmm, perhaps."

"Then I shall lead you there. Follow me."

They go down a spiral staircase at the end of the hall and find themselves on the ground floor. The doorway is opened by a couple of Tully guards, wielding their spears. Seeing that the sun is shining brightly upon the training yard, she pulls out her parasol from her [Item Box] and opens it. She may be a Level 100 True Vampire and undamaged by sunlight, but she still detests the sun. _At least my skin won't get any sunburn from it._

As she's about to head out, the septon and guards look at her with fear and shock. They seem to be ready to bring down their spears at her. "Is there a problem, Septon Lucas?" she asks the trembling man.

"Um.. Uh, nothing Lady Shalltear. L-Let us head out then."

The three men seem to give her a wide berth as she walks through the door. She doesn't understand why, but accepts it anyway; a little bit of distance from humans are always welcome.

The yard is filled with the shouts of men and soon-to-be-men. Near her exit, she sees a wooden building full of training shields and weapons, all ends blunted. The air is rife with the smell of sweat and blood, though the latter is not enough to her liking. At the centre of the yard, a crowd is forming around two fighters. Among them, she notices a few women as well: servants from the looks of it, and a well-dressed lady. _She may be of use._

As she approaches, the crowd parts around her. Some are taken off-guard by her looks, taking their eyes off the match. The septon follows closely behind.

The two men fighting doesn't see their new visitor observing them. Panting and sweating, the auburn-haired man charges forward at the other, sword raised up high. The white-bearded one simply raises their shield and parries the swing before landing a strike of their own. The crowd cheer and laugh when the other falls on their back. "You're dead."

"Agh, thank you Ser Desmond," the younger one groans as he's lifted back to his feet. "I see that I still have much learning to do."

"Of course, my lord. Experience makes the man. I can assure you that-" Desmond jumps back as he sees the face of Shalltear. He's frozen in fear.

"Eh, Ser Desmond?"

"Visitors," he whispers.

"Visi- Oh, shit visitors! Right, right!" The younger man stands up, combing back his hair and brushing off the dust from his fine clothes. "I'm so sorry you have to see that. Certainly not one of my best duels," he jests, smiling at Shalltear. "Welcome to Riverrun! Sorry, I never caught your name."

"I am Lady Shalltear Bloodfallen," she curtsies, "a vassal of the Supreme Being Ainz Ooal Gown. It is quite a pleasure to meet you."

"Greetings Lady Shalltear. I'm Edmure Tully, son of Hoster Tully, the Lord Paramount." _The Tully heir, is he? I should let a [Shadow Demon] tag along with him._ "If I remember correctly, your lord is visiting here, isn't he?"

"That is correct, Edmure. Lord Ainz is currently accompanied by the maester of your castle, as I am by Septon Lucas here." The septon moves forward, bowing to Edmure. Shalltear can see Desmond still being quite wary of her, standing somewhat in between the Lord's heir and herself.

"Ah, Septon Lucas," the man calls out quite happily, "I hope you've shown our guest the best places in Riverrun. Tell me, how about the Godswood?"

"Well, I was about to attend her there when she took interest in your fighting, my lord."

"Ah, it's not often you see a lady coming to a training yard. Though I have to say sorry, I'm already taken," he thumps his chest quite happily. Shalltear can hear a woman giggle behind her. _So she's the wife then..._ "Have you come here to look around at the goods? I have to warn you that some of the men behind me, they're a bit of a floppy fish. Ain't that right Ser Desmond?"

"I thought the songs were about yo-"

"Not in front of the guests, please!" Several of the men laugh at the joke, only to be silenced by Edmure's glare. Desmond still keeps an eye on her.

"Not so much, Edmure Tully. I have only eyes for one man, and he's currently also having a tour of the castle." She wonders if the Supreme Being is alright; his assurances did nothing to quench her worries. "I was simply observing your swordsmanship. Though after watching your amusing fall, I became quite disheartened by your skills. It feels quite lacking for someone claiming to be an heir of a Lord Paramount."

"Disheartened?" the man scoffs, leaning on his training sword like a cane. "Well, I might not yet have the skills of Ser Desmond here, but I can assure you that I'm more than capable of defending a castle and commanding an army. Tell me Lady Shalltear, what do you know of fighting?"

"Well, Edmure Tully," Shalltear grins, revealing her fangs, "I am able to criticise your form for I am also a warrior. A knight to be exact."

This answer stuns all in the training yard. She can hear the people around them whisper to each other regarding her size and lies; the men before her simply stare in shock. Edmure Tully breaks the silence with a laugh. "Ha ha! I see the people you've come from are quite the jesters! Though a bit of a dry joke, I must admit."

"It isn't a joke, Edmure Tully," she clarifies. "As one of the Floor Guardians of Nazarick, I pride myself in being its vanguard protector."

The man's smile starts to falter. The other two men near him sense the change in atmosphere. "You're a commander?"

"A commander and a knight. Do please remember that."

"A knight..." he snickers at the thought, pacing around her. Shalltear keeps on smiling at the man. "You mean to say that your lord, this Ainz Ooal Gown, granted you a knighthood? A girl?"

"The Great Nazarick Empire does not care for your origins, only that you swear your life to the Supreme Being."

"But a little girl!" He puts his hand on his chest, emphasising their height difference. He chuckles again. "If I didn't know any better, then this lord of yours is just giving titles to whoever he wants, to people who clearly don't deserve it. A play of a fool."

"I can assure you that I saw more combat in my short life than yours, Edmure Tully. I'm far more deserving of my title than yours of a lord."

Edmure strikes the ground with his training sword, dust billowing in the air. His wife looks distressed, along with Desmond and the septon. He glares at the girl, frowning. "Now, I don't know who or where you invaders come from. But I will not take that insult lightly. Leave, and I shall let your inexperience guide you elsewhere, little girl."

Shalltear laughs haughtily. "Inexperience? Oh my~ I do have some in battles, though you may not have heard of them. But surely, even with your deaf ears, you have heard of my feat in conquering Harrenhal, have you not?"

**Riverrun - 295 AC**

Blackfish needs to prepare for the upcoming meeting. As the creature does not seem to drink or feed on anything, their prepared meals containing some of the maester's concoctions have to be thrown away to the fish. No, they have to come up with something else. Something that might entice the creature to spill its secrets and weaken its mind.

_Doing it in the solar might help._ He noticed during their trip on the boat that the monster seems to be intent on watching the scenery. Their tales of destroyed rivers may also suggest its love of nature. _Perhaps I should gather plants and flowers from the garden. Or maybe, conduct the meeting in the Godswood? No, that'll be far too public for my brother's liking. And there's no telling of what that thing will do there, considering what happened to Harrenhal's own hearttree._

As he ponders on the choices, he orders some of the servants to gather up the needed plants and flowers. He goes to the chef and confirms with him that there will only be three meals for the meeting: his, the Lord Paramount, and the girl. Walking briskly through the castle halls, he notices a group of people looking out of the castle window and onto the training yard.

"Is he really doing this?"

"She's not backing down."

"I'm betting fifteen groats for his win!"

"What is going on here?" he questions the group. All disperse from the window and bows at Blackfish.

"Ser Blackfish Ser," one of the stable boys speaks. "I'm just watching the yard's fights."

"The yard, huh?" He knows the yard as well as the back of his hand. Many years of his life has been spent training there, perfecting his combat and skills. He had learnt from a different master-at-arms there, swearing to his brother to become House Tully's sworn knight. Now, in the time of peace, it's mostly used by the guards too keep their minds and body sharp. He occasionally sees his nephew there as well, training with Ser Desmond Grell.

"Ah, you were placing bets on my nephew?" Blackfish asks, smiling at them. "Knowing him, I'd bet on him losing than winning. He's not the best fighter in Riverrun, that's for sure."

"No, uh you see," the servant boy struggles to answer, "he's battling a little girl."

_A little girl? That's odd, why would a little girl be- OH FUCK!_

Realising who the boy refers to, he pushes past them and runs down the spiral staircase. Opening the door to the yard, he can see a large crowd gathering around the two soon-to-be fighters. On one corner, he sees the black-dressed girl brandishing a wooden training lance whilst holding an umbrella. She doesn't seem serious at all. On the other corner, he sees his nephew, pacing angrily with the septon and master-at-arms trying to calm him down.

He quickly goes towards them, pushing through the crowd before reaching the future Lord Paramount. He grabs the man by his shoulders and shakes him hard. "What in the seventh hell are you thinking, Edmure!?"

Edmure swats away the hands of Blackfish. "Ah, uncle. Nice to see you again. Tell me-"

"-What. The fuck. Are you doing?"

Edmure smiles at Blackfish, though he can still see the fury in him. "I'm returning the good grace of our house name, uncle. The girl decided it fit to call herself a knight and insult the Lord Paramount."

"They're our guests, Edmure," Blackfish whispers. "They may be invaders, but for now I don't want to see any harm done to them."

"And what of our house name then? What of House Whent!?" Edmure asks, brandishing his training sword and putting on his helmet. "The girl accepted anyway, so it's her fault she want to be thrashed. Sure, I'll restrain myself; she's just a little girl after all. But I want to teach her a lesson to not mess with the Riverlands, you hear? Knock her around a bit, just like with the green boys."

Knowing that he won't get through his nephew's stubbornness, he runs towards the guest, hoping that they would be more willing to listen to reason.

"Ah, the fool decided that he wants a duel," Shalltear answers, looking at her long nails. "I'll play around with him for a bit. He did insult the Supreme Being after all. Though I'd see it fit for him to be executed for that," she snarls, "I'll just bruise his ego, that's all."

_By the gods, they're both stubborn!_ Realising that he won't be able to stop the fight, he directs the master-at-arms and himself to be the judges if things get too heated. _When Edmure wins, he'll be known through the Riverlands as the Lord who fought a little girl with a sword. Doesn't he see that, or is he too blinded in anger!?_

As the two fighters take up their position, Blackfish observes their forms. Edmure, who now dons his usual armour of blue and red, wields a shield with the emblem of House Tully and a blunted arming sword. It's clear that he wants to show the pride of his house; but from where Blackfish stands, it's as if he's ready to kill the girl. He may have a bad stance, but he's still a warrior. The old knight already has his sword drawn, prepared for the worst.

And the girl Shalltear, he observes, seems quite nonchalant. In fact, she's still carrying her parasol with her, more concerned about the sun above than the warrior in front of her. Blackfish knows that she's a member of the enemy, but looking upon her small form, he has a desire to protect her. At the very least, to him, it was their leader's teachings that have warped her mind. Even so, she holds herself quite well: the lance is poised and ready in one hand, and she seems confident. _Gods, I hope the negotiations go well after this... How do I explain this to my brother?_

"I announce this duel," Desmond shouts, "begins!"

With that, his nephew approaches the girl. "This is your last chance," he shouts. "Back down now and I'll forget this has ever happened!"

"Embarrassed of your mistake, Edmure Tully?" she giggles. "To think a coward hides in a school of trout."

With a cry, Edmure charges towards the girl. Shield up and sword raised, he aims to swing down onto the girl's head, ending the match quickly. Blackfish can only watch in horror as the events unfold before them. He then brings it down-

_*CLANG!*_

-Only for it to be blocked by the girl's parasol. Everyone watching is shocked at the sight before them, for the girl has blocked the hit effortlessly. He can see Edmure straining to push his sword down to no avail, the umbrella not even deforming. Then, with blinding-fast movement, the girl jabs the lance into the man's shield. The force of the impact is unnaturally strong for a girl that size, shattering the lance to splinters and breaking the shield. Edmure is sent flying back, landing before the feet of the terrified crowd with a crash. The girl looks bored with the situation, throwing away the broken handle. A guard hands her another wooden lance, wary of its wielder.

_...What in the seven fucking hells was that!?_ In all his life, he has never seen such force exerted by a man before, let alone a little girl. Maybe during a battle, but those knights were on horseback when their lances broke. But this? She's standing on the flat, dusty ground of the yard when she made that thrust. No lances ever explode like that. And she didn't even budge, like a sentinel guarding a palace.

"What is the matter, flop fish?" she taunts and smirks. "Have you shown your belly to be gutted like a trout?"

He growls in response, grabbing the shield offered to him by a page. Standing back up, he keeps his eyes on the girl. As Blackfish observes, his nephew seems to have taken a more defensive stance. _Wary about retaliation from the girl... Perhaps her claim is not as crazy as it sounds._ He shudders at the thought; if a little girl can be a powerful knight in Ainz Ooal Gown's throngs, then what of the others? The ones more skilled and stronger than her? How about those death knights?

Edmure Tully charges, this time angling his shield as to let the lance bounce off of it. Yet, as he swings his sword, it is blocked again by the parasol. This time, however, he keeps on moving as to run over the girl. But before he could do so, the lance strikes at his feet, causing him to fall. With a swift kick, he's sent flying into the arm of the castle guards, all thrown back from the impact. There's a sizable hole on his breastplate, and blood is staining the helmet.

"That was a kick," Desmond whispers. "That was just a fucking kick." Blackfish didn't even see her feet leave the confines of her wide skirt. Whatever she's doing, it's extremely fast and powerful, her strength rivalling that of giants. The girl looks disappointed at the man. No, there's also a mix of pity in there as well.

As Edmure slowly stands up, the girl gives him no reprieve. She dashes towards him and smashes the lance against his right shoulder, crumpling it with the armour. As he screams and writhes in pain, she jabs the remains of the lance into his other shoulder, destroying his bones in the process.

"Gaaah, AHHH! Ah, help, ACH!" Edmure struggles helplessly on the ground, like a dying fish.

Shalltear reaches down and grabs him by the throat, his metal helmet breaking in her grasp. "Now, would you please listen to me, fish boy?" she asks sweetly. The sobbing man nods. "Good~ I just want you to remember this." With another squeeze, his helmet breaks apart. Her eyes glow red and her teeth seem to lengthen, making her closer to a ghoul in appearance. The air around her shimmers, giving everyone cold chills and a deathly desire to run away. "You will never, ever, insult me or my master again. Or else you and your wife will pay. Is it clear?"

"Y-Yes Lady Shalltear..."

"Swear it by your house."

"I-I swear by H-House Tully-"

"Your Gods."

"I swear b-by the Seven-"

"And mine."

"A-And in the name o-of Ainz Ooal Gown," his nephew whimpers, sobbing. "Please, I'm sorry."

She turns to look at Blackfish, a cheery smile back on her face. "Here you go~ I'm sorry with what I've done to him." She throws the shivering remains of Edmure Tully at his feet. Quickly assessing him, Blackfish notices that the armour has crushed and entered the flesh of the man. It will be hard to treat.

"H-How-"

"Oh, don't worry. I hear you still have the potions given to you by Lord Ainz, are you not? You could just use a bottle to heal him up." With that, she walks past the two men and approaches the septon. "Ah, Septon Lucas. I heard that you were offering to lead me to the Godswood? A little relaxation now would be helpful."

"Uh ah certainly!" the man shouts, still scared of the battle that had just occurred. With that, the two enter the castle and disappears into the darkness.

Blackfish can only clutch the bloody mess that is his nephew. He has one question answered; he's not sure if he wants to see more.


	11. The Refreshing Rivers - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Momonga relaxes in the grace of the Godswood. Perhaps with a side of light reading as well?
> 
> (Sorry shorter than usual. Tomorrow will be normal.)

**Riverrun - 295 AC**

"And this here," the maester opens the door, "is the castle study and library. It's where I will usually spend my time when not tending to the Lord Paramount."

"Interesting..."

Momonga can barely contain his excitement. _It's a good thing that my undead body hides away any expressions, huh? Or else I would just look like a grinning idiot._ Before him is a room of moderate size, filled to the brim with shelves and books. Some, he observes lying on the desk, are documents and parchments. He can see another small door connecting to the room. Is that _where the maester lives? It's quite lacking, isn't it?  
_

"These books are all owned by House Tully. Many of them you will only find copies here. For example," he pulls out one of the books. It looks quite old to Momonga, the spine being bound with rotting iron and leather. "This one details the lineage of House Tully to their origins, though I will say that the ones relating to the First Men are quite inaccurate."

"I see. Tell me, Maester Marwyn, when was this written?"

"Well," he opens the book and views its first couple of pages, "it seems that it ends with the late Lord Eston Tully. As his time of death has not been written, I would say... Approximately seven hundred years ago. Perhaps around three-hundred eighties or nineties BC."

_Holy fuck..._ Momonga is in awe at the numbers the maester gave for the book. _Seven-hundred years, that thing would be worth millions back in my world! And he's just holding it like that, no gloves or anything._ As books and records back on earth don't usually last as long, anything a few hundred years old would be considered vintage. Five centuries and some may consider it ancient. Time and the elements usually get their way eventually. For something to look so well kept after all these times is unbelievable. The collector inside him squeals in delight.

...

_Wait a minute, did he just say BC? As in, Before Christ?_ That fact sounds quite disconcerting. If he's in the past, then wouldn't he be influencing the future? _Wait, I haven't seen anything here that screams Christianity. So it shouldn't be... Right? Shit, how do I ask without looking like an idiot?_

"Your people seem to have an interesting way for a calendar," Ainz notes, scratching his chin. "So we're only a couple of centuries in, are we?"

"Yes, your lordship," the maester smiles. "Our calendar is based on the day of Aegon's Conquest of Westeros, which occurred two-hundred and ninety-five years ago. As such, we divide the time before and after Conquest."

_Huh, what a weird coincidence then. So BC and AC are used in this world as well._ Considering that the book that was shown to him was made during the BC era, then that means there's quite a lot of history for him to read up on. _Hopefully, they'll be more interesting than the books I read on the way here._ "May I select a few to read? I think we still have time before the meeting, don't we?"

"Of course. Just take any that you need." With that, the maester backs away from him. He looks keen to be away from Momonga, perhaps still fearing his looks. _Are there no such things as undead in this world? But they hold themselves up quite well._

Momonga approaches the closest shelf and tries to read the spines. He can't recognise any of the letters, let alone the language. "Figures," he whispers. One of the things he finds odd about this world is that though he can speak to its inhabitants, how each of them perceives the language is different. For example, Momonga hears perfect Japanese from the Westerosi, whilst the people hear their own language called the Common Tongue. This, however, does not extend to written language. _Perhaps it's for the better then since I can still write down messages without spies knowing its meaning._

Of course, being from Yggdrasil, there are ways to overcome this language barrier. The main one is an item called [Magic Glasses]. Pulling out a pair from his [Item Box], it looks just like any normal glasses. However, using it allows the user to translate and read any languages; at least in Yggdrasil, the ones stored in the database. But he notices something odd in this new world: magic is somewhat buffed. His glasses no longer translate just a few select ones of the real world, but new ones as well such as the Common Tongue. The quality is also far improved: originally in Yggdrasil, the item was lambasted as useless due to not having new newest generation translation software. But here, it's as if the writing was originally the translated one. It seems so seamless and accurate.

He scans the titles of the books again, picking out the ones he might be interested in. _I should just take to two or three books; I have a meeting later. It's a shame that I won't be able to keep them. Let's see, "A Succinct History of the Trident" might have some helpful information. Oh, "The Intricacies of Westerosi Etiquette" would be quite helpful indeed. Don't want to make any faux pas in important meetings after all. Ah, what should be the last one? Hm?_

As he looks through the next shelf, his eye catches on a single book bound in black leather. The braces on the spine are embossed with gold leaf, curling into the shape of a dragon's head. Its cover bears the inscription: "Doom and Valyria". _This... This looks important._ He grabs the book and adds it onto the pile. _Considering it has gold on it probably means that it's important._

"May I ask for a quiet place to read these books, Maester Vyman?"

The man is startled from Momonga's question, pushing himself from the shelf he was leaning against. _Did he fell asleep? He does look kind of tired._ "Ah yes, sure Lord Ainz," the maester smiles warily. "I know the perfect place; how about the Godswood?"

_Godswood? Isn't that where Nazarick was teleported into, the one in Harrenhal?_ "That would do, Maester Vyman. Please lead the way."

As they walk through the halls of the castle, the pass by several servants and guards. Some have dropped their spears and items upon laying their eyes on him, while others just outright scream and run away. Each time they do so, Momonga can hear the maester sigh in exasperation. _I guess this can get pretty tiring after a while._

At last, they open the gates to what looks like a garden. About the size of a small woods, the grounds are dirt with some stepping stones placed on the ground. The grass and shrubberies are trimmed to perfection, directing the men towards the centre of the area. Scattered around them are trees of elm and redwood. And at its centre lies the hearttree, its trunk and branches white with blood-red leaves. The face carved into it looks quite sad.

The maester leads him to a stone outcropping, carved into the shape of a bench. Placing down the books, he thanks the maester and watches as the man leaves back through the door. He's alone now, only accompanied by the weirwood and the birds chirping above him. As he sits down and relaxes, he reflects on the nature of this castle.

_It's definitely much smaller than Harrenhal. Then again, most towns are smaller than it._ To Momonga, Riverrun looks quite mystical in its appearance. Though he doesn't see many humans here, it's probably quite defensible from its position in the river. Invaders would have to row their way onto the castle, at which point they can retaliate by sinking their boats. _Definitely manageable with a few hundred people. A nice, cosy castle._

In contrast, Harrenhal is like that of an evil castle. Though most of it is destroyed by some attack a long time ago, it still looks quite formidable from a distance. Lupusregina, Shalltear, and even Mare are quite enthusiastic in restoring it; Momonga is not even sure if that's worth it. The amount of personnel and resources required to rebuild the damn thing is quite high; his and Shalltear's [Death Knights] alone wouldn't be enough.

_Or maybe I'm just not thinking about this correctly,_ he reckons. _Maybe, the castle can act as a capital to the Great Nazarick Empire. A hub town full of markets and barters. That means I need people to populate it, but how will I get them?_

With a sigh, he picks up one of the books to read. He decides that rather than doing nothing but thinking for a few hours, he'd rather research before the meeting. _Which one is this one again? Ah yes, the "Trident" one._ With the book in hand, he leans back on the rock and opens to the first page.

...

_This is not what I expected._ Flipping through the pages, he sees that most of them are filled with large, one-page images. The style seems similar to woodcut, but somewhat more detailed and refined compared to what he'd seen in digital museums. There are small descriptions and captions in and below the images, describing in detail the story. _Wait, is this a storybook for kids? There's small handprints on the edges. It is, isn't it?_

Sighing, he continues on reading it. There's no point in returning the book now and getting a new one. _Maybe there are some educational fairy tales in here._ From reading and looking at the images, it seems to depict the story of the current king, the one named Robert Baratheon. Here, he's shown as a bearded and muscular man of tall stature riding a white horse. His enemy, one named Rhaegar Targaryen, is depicted with a lizard head. _Is he a lizard demi-human? Or is it just some insult I don't understand?_

As the story goes, he reads on how Robert is sworn on vengeance on House Targaryen for stealing his beloved. All the Targaryens have lizard heads. _Demi-human then._ The armies then rode on to the Riverlands where they battled at the Trident, apparently a river system near Riverrun. Momonga can see how the hammer of Robert smashes through the lizard's skull. Though in printed form, it still looks quite gory. _Is this really for children!?_

The story ends with Robert being crowned as king of the Seven Kingdoms. All that leaves Momonga with more questions than answers. _I should have looked into the books before picking them,_ he sighs and picks the next book. The one about etiquette. He hopes that this one will not be the same.

...

_Great, it's the same. Well, not really but..._ From what he can read, the book's title seems to be a play on the idea of etiquette. A satire. It explains as such in the introduction. Whoever the author is, they're doing so to poke fun at the hierarchical nature of Westerosi society if he reads it correctly. _A satire huh? More than what one can get away with back in my world. Hmm, perhaps there will be something useful here. Let's read through the first chapter then._

_...Ah, it's porn._ The pages are decorated with smutty drawings of men and women having intercourse. The text is also quite raunchy, explaining those acts in detail. Fucking kings, fucking queens, fucking princesses, it's all there. _I wonder what Peroroncino will say about this; he called himself an ero-connoisseur after all. Maybe it'll be in his vintage collection, though perhaps more valuable than some magazines he has._ Momonga flips through the pages quickly. Even though he doesn't feel arousal as an undead, there's still the feeling of shame welling up inside of him. _Even so, this is a bit tame for him. Knowing the man, he would-_

_Oh. OH. That's a dragon._ He closes the book, feeling that he'd rather not continue it.

Down to the last one, he has low expectations. Resigning to his fate, he leans back and opens the book.

...

_Well, what do you know, an actual valuable book. This should be a good read._ From the first chapter, it seems to tell the history of some land named Valyria to the east of the continent of Westeros. There, the book claims that the rulers of said land tamed and used dragons to expand their empire. _So there are actual dragons, huh? And people who tamed them as well. From the description, aren't they closer to wyverns than Yggdrasil dragons?_

At the mention of magic being used, Momonga makes a mental note of it. He hasn't heard of people in the Riverlands using magic of any kind, so he suspects that perhaps magic is non-existent here. But from this book, it may perhaps be more common in the past. _What kind do they use? Is it like the Tier Magic in Yggdrasil, or something different?_ The idea of an unknown threat both excites and terrify Momonga. He's used to it in Yggdrasil, where the appeal of the game was the unknown. _But this is the real world, isn't it? I'll have to be prepared some way or another. At the very least, have the Nazarick denizens prepared as well._

As he reads another chapter, he receives a [Message] from Shalltear. ["Momonga-sama~ How are you doing?"]

["I'm fine Shalltear. How is your information gathering?"]

["Ah, I have to apologise, Momonga-sama. I only managed to find information on some of the soldier's estimated levels and about their faith in something called the Seven."]

_I see, so she has done more than me._ ["There's no need to apologise, Shalltear. You have done great work today. I assume you've sent out the scouts?"]

["Yes, Momonga-... the scouts are... wa..."] There's some slight buzzing when hearing Shalltear's message.

["Shalltear? Shalltear, can you hear?"]

["...hzz...ha..."]

["...Shalltear?"]

["..."]

["..."]

["... _skull king_..."]

Momonga turns off his [Message].

...

What happened there was not normal. No, it's the first time Momonga has ever heard of static and distortions in his [Message]. From his knowledge, there are ways to listen in to [Message] being sent by the enemy. He knows this for he can use some of the spells himself.

But hijacking a [Message]? That's unheard of.

Momonga, for the first time coming to this new world, feels fear. Fear and dread at what lies in the unknown. The birds are chirping overhead, crows roosting on branches, and a soft breeze flows through the Godswood. Yet he can't shake off the feeling that he's being watched. From someone, somewhere.

_I do not recognise that voice,_ Momonga thinks to himself, now standing before the hearttree. _A [Message] uses the voice of the caster, yet it's not one of my denizens or the lords living here. It sounded like a croak of a frog, yet I can still hear the words. So who is it then?_

Pacing around, he suspects that someone is using some sort of spell to spy on them _But what kind? What Tier? Is it even a Tier Magic? A spell?_ It's frustrating for Momonga to not have all the answers; even more so when this can clearly be seen as a threat. His ring should have been enough to block any divination-type magic that may spy or interfere with sight and messages. And yet...

Desperate, he casts [Discern Enemy] to his surroundings, trying to find the culprit. All that he casts the spell on shows them to be about Level 1, at most Level 5 for some of the birds and crows. But when he casts it on the weirwood, something strange happens. The moment the spell identifies it, the level quickly drops from a high number to just Level 10. In that brief moment, he saw the level at above sixty.

That is really worrying for him. Even though Momonga is a Level 100 magic caster, a Level 60 enemy can still cause quite the damage on him. Perhaps, with preparation and the right equipment, even kill him. He observes the face of the weirwood, scratching its bark until it bleeds red sap. "Did you do this?" he speaks to the tree. There were sentient trees in Yggdrasil after all; perhaps this is one of them.

No answer. _Perhaps the tree is only a distraction. Or, it used the tree as a medium. No, could it..._

Before he could ponder some more, Shalltear arrives with the septon in tow and curtsies at Momonga. "My dear Lord Ainz, I'm sorry for taking so long. Shall we go and meet the Lord Paramount?"

_Lord Para- Ah, it's already noon._ His reading and walking around the Godswood have taken most of the free time he had. The sun is now directly above them, shining down upon the castle. He glances at Shalltear. Though she hides it well, there's still a sense of worry around her. _So she felt the interference as well. I'll have to warn the rest of Nazarick but, shit, how do I tell them without a [Message]?_

_...[Shadow Demons]. I can have Shalltear create a [Gate] and send them out._

He picks up the books that have been taken from the maester's study. _I'll have to investigate this further. Sending the demon is best done in the dark._ "Come. Let us not waste Hoster Tully's time."


	12. The Refreshing Rivers - Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Momonga still has to deal with the fact that someone is capable of disrupting [Message].

**Riverrun - 295 AC**

"My son is wounded, a bottle is wasted, and you're telling me to be CALM!?" Hoster Tully throws the glass cup at his brother. Blackfish dodges it, the glass shattering against the wall behind him. "How could you let that happen, Brynden!? You know he is the heir! You were there and saw it happen!"

"Look, I understand brother. But Edmure challenged her to the duel. He paid the price for his arrogance, brother. He'll be a better man out of it."

"The price," the Lord Paramount hisses, "for insults and pride, is to have his shoulders broken? To make a fool out of him in front of his men?"

"Yes," Blackfish answers. But even with the confidence in his voice, he still believes that it isn't the case. What happened to his nephew was brutal, no less than watching a dog devouring a kitten. There was nothing fair about it. No honour, no lessons. Just simple brutality. Of course, none of his actual opinions on the matter is brought up. He only needs to convince his brother after all.

"Vyman!" he shouts, bringing the maester to attention. "I need to know. If he wasn't given the potion, would he recover?"

"W-Well, from the looks of it, the wounds were quite extensive. You see," the maester rubs his hands, "his armour was wedged into his bones in pieces, my lord. The best I could do was to pull out the pieces before stitching it up and giving it the required ointments. If, if he survived then," he gulps, "I doubt he could use his arms. That is my opinion, my lord."

"And we still have eight full bottles left, brother. The only scars left on him are his pride."

"And the name of House Tully," Hoster adds. "Tell me, what will they say of the Lord Paramount if people know he was beaten by a little girl? A little girl that HE challenged?"

"They won't," Blackfish answers. "They'll know him for having the bravery for challenging the one who conquered Harrenhal. For standing up in the name of the Riverlands." This is only partially true. A part of why Edmure challenged her was because she insulted and demean their hold on Harrenhal. But the other is simply pride and cockiness in being able to beat a little girl. Of course, Blackfish will have to try his best to push this narrative forward.

"Heh, so you truly believe she was the one who conquered that damned castle?" Hoster scoffs.

"After what I've seen in the training yard, I'm inclined to believe so brother." He remembers again the damned girl; how she looked so bored whilst goring his nephew. _And those eyes of hers..._ "Perhaps, if this is not far-fetched, she may not be human."

The maester and Lord Paramount look at the old knight with disbelief. Hoster sighs, slowly calming himself down by tapping his cane on the floor. "I find that hard to believe, Brynden. But even so, it would make sense for the monster's followers to also be monsters. So, if you're so adamant on that point, what do you think she is then?"

"I..." He has no answer to this. Sure, he remembers the old stories in his childhood, but most are about snarks and the Others. There's nothing on a monster who looks like a small girl. He glances at the maester, pleading for help. But the old man simply shrugs. _I'm alone here, aren't I?_ "...I don't know much about fairy tales, my lord. But I can assu-"

"-Assure me of this, Ser Brynden." He lifts his cane and points it at the knight. "That you will always protect the name of House Tully. That beneath the eyes of those monsters, you shall never betray us like House Whent. That you will fight to the bitter end for our safety. Is that clear?"

Blackfish kneels before his brother. "My allegiance is always with House Tully, Lord Paramount. I promise to hold your best interest in mind."

"Isn't that what you said as well before accepting the monster's gifts?" Hoster smirks.

Blackfish twitches in anger. He wants to go off and yell at his brother for such insinuations, but he'd rather not have a shouting match before their meeting. No, he needs to keep calm for now. _The opportunity will present itself later, after all._

Everything in the room has been designed with the meeting in mind. The solar has been cleaned up, with all loose documents and important scrolls stored away in shelves and chests. Food is prepared for the guests and themselves, making sure that theirs is more frugal in comparison. Charts, maps, and the like are readily placed at the side; along with any writing implements as well. Servants are ready to be called in case anything goes awry or if they need to bring something in. Windows are left open, giving the view of the river and the grasslands beyond it. With that, they stand and wait by their respective places.

The septon arrives at the door, bringing with him the monster and the girl. All eyes are on them. "Greetings, Hoster Tully," the monster speaks. "I hope I am not late for this meeting."

"No no, that is quite alright, Lord Ainz," Hoster replies, filling a cup of wine for himself. The anger he's shown before have all been hidden away. "You're just in time after all. Do please sit, I have prepared meals for us."

Blackfish carefully watches them as they sit down. The monster sets down several books on the table. He recognises them as the ones from the maester's study but does question the odd choice of books. The only one he expected from the monster is the black book; the other two does not make sense. _Was it perhaps entertaining itself? Does it not care about this meeting?_

"I'm sorry to refuse this meal, Hoster Tully. But, as you can see from my condition," the monster displays its ribs, "I am not one for eating."

"Ah, I apologise for my mistake Lord Ainz. Maester Vyman, could you please send a servant to take his plate? Our guest here doesn't need it."

"Yes, my lord," the maester bows and exits the room.

"Sorry about this, I did not know your condition after all." _So the monster is incapable of eating. Makes sense for it has no flesh. But what of the girl?_ Blackfish notes that the girl has yet to touch the food, even though through the tour of the castle she wouldn't have time to eat. He doubts that she's still full from the carriage, and the wine doesn't do much to contain one's hunger. _Yet all she does is drink the wine. Drink and not get drunk.  
_

"That is alright. I'm sure a being such as myself is quite uncommon in your lands," the monster replies. "But, as you know, I'd rather we discuss the matters at hand directly. No need to waste time after all."

"Straightforward. I do like your discipline, Lord Ainz." With that, Hoster stands and heads to his desk. He pulls out the chest given by the monster and places it on the main table. Unlocking it, he pulls out the bottles inside and the parchments of the agreement and spread them on the table. "I assume that you have no problems with the first and second part of this pact?"

"It is only the last that we shall be discussing."

"Alright then." The maester returns with servants, who then proceeds to clear the monster's meal. Upon seeing the chest, the maester places down the map of the Riverlands and several empty parchments onto the table. Hoster points to a region in the map. "As you know, we are currently in Riverrun, the main seat of Riverlands. Our rule encompasses this region, though we are the greater part of the Realm."

"The one that is ruled by Robert Baratheon."

"That is correct Lord Ainz, the first of his name. We are his subjects, and as such our decisions must benefit the Realm as well. This... Is where we have our problems." The Lord Paramount reaches into his coat, pulling out a parchment signed with the royal seal. "Before the pact was made, a raven was sent from King's Landing bearing the King's orders. As stated here, the king wants us to be 'rid of the invaders.' Invaders, of course, being the Great Nazarick Empire."

The skeleton scratches its chin for a moment. "May I read the letter?"

"Here," Hoster hands it to the creature. Before reading, it pulls a glass-something out of its robes and puts it on its head. _What is that?_ Blackfish has never seen such an implement before. _Why does it need to pull it out now? Can it see better through it? Is that what it has instead of eyes?_ Again, another thing to discuss with the maester.

"This means that the pact my brother has made with you was done without my consent and in disregard of the king's orders."

To this, the pinprick of light in the monster's sockets light up at Blackfish. He can feel cold sweat running down his spine. _The Stranger..._

"I see... I hope you are not suggesting to withdraw the agreement then."

"No, I will not," Hoster answers, sipping his wine. "I'm still a Lord Paramount, after all. I wield authority even with a king over my head. I'm simply proposing changes to the agreement, as agreed upon in your pact."

The creature hands the parchment back to Hoster. "What do you have in mind, Hoster Tully?"

"Well, if I remember correctly, my brother wanted to make restrictions on trading goods with your nation."

"That is correct. If you suggest it as well, then I must decline." Though there's no force in its intonations, it's clear that the thing will not budge on the matter. _The creature seems to have a taste for gold.  
_

"And is why I propose another option for you to take, Lord Ainz. Give us some of your forces." The girl glares at Hoster, but the Lord Paramount pays her no heed. "It is a simple payment for our alliance. Fifty men and fifty horses shall be soldiers under House Tully. They shall not harm us, lest the deal is broken. We shall hold them for ten years and may assign them to tasks and missions for ourselves."

Blackfish can see his brother smile. _It is quite a cunning proposal. If the creature agrees to it, then it shall be deprived of quite a lot of its forces, weakening it in case for the future. We can also have the maester that will come over study it as well, find out its inner workings and weaknesses. Placing them in a secluded area will minimise damage if they rebel, which they likely will do. This gives us a chance in retaliating against the Empire. If it refuses, well... We are on an island._

"Hoster Tully," the girl speaks quite irritatedly, "I hope you're not taking us for a fool. Why, that is the moro-"

"Shalltear." The creature's voice silences the girl, who quickly shrinks into her seat. It then turns back to his brother. "I assume by men and horses, you mean my death knights and soul eaters?"

"Is that what the strange horses are called?" That's another worrying name for Blackfish: soul eater. _Death knight I can assume from its looks and, presumably, prowess. Those skeletal horses, with their lights and mist... Surely they don't eat souls. Perhaps the name is their dexterity or feeding on meat?_

"Yes, they are called soul eaters. Do you not have them in Westeros?"

"No, we do not," Hoster answers.

 _Of-fucking-course we do not!_ Blackfish screams in his head.

"So, for the payment of fifty soul eaters and fifty death knights, you will allow us free reign over our trades." Hoster nods, finishing his glass. "Tell me why should I agree to it?"

"A sovereign nation that you are, you still invaded our lands," the Lord Paramount answers. His voice is calm and forceful; he had a lot of practice beforehand. "Even to those that lie fealty with the king, such as the Greyjoys, we dislike invaders. In fact, House Tully is taking the brunt of the King's criticisms and ire by tolerating your presence. However, we are an honourable people. We will avoid conflict when we can, and I hope that you will do the same."

_Appealing to the monster's goodwill by brandishing your own. You are quite the good negotiator, brother, though I doubt the monster would give up its forces ea-_

"I accept the deal." The answer comes to the muted surprise of both Blackfish and Shalltear.

Hoster smiles. "Thank you, Lord Ainz. This will help us build a great relationship towards the future."

With the deal settled, the maester and the monster write up the agreement for the pact. Blackfish throws the old parchments into the fire, signifying a change in the pact. The two then sign and seal the new pact, each getting a respective copy. After taking it, the creature offers its clawed hands. "Let us shake hands for it, Hoster. For the future of our nation."

The Lord Paramount takes its hands with no fear. "Same for me, Lord Ainz."

"Though, it will take some time to gather them all and send it to you," the monster adds. "It will take at least a week to select and send them to Riverrun."

"That is alright, Lord Ainz. Such decisions are not to be made hastily." Hoster releases his grip and walks to the maester. "Could you please lead our guests to their quarters?"

"No worries, my lord."

With that, Blackfish and his brother are left alone in the room. Hoster sits back down on his chair and lets out a long, tired sigh. He fills back up his glass and drinks half of the wine. "That was stressful."

"The monster accepted your deal, brother."

"Yes, but it did so too quickly. Heh, even the girl was surprised," he chuckles, swirling his wine. After taking another sip, he grabs a chicken leg and begins devouring it. They didn't eat anything prior to the meeting on the coast. "That thing's either a fool, or it's smarter than we're letting on. The girl was interrupted by it as well."

Blackfish also worries about that. It's clear that the monster commands quite the severe loyalty from the little girl. If it's as intelligent as they think it might be, he can see why. _But why not create a counter to the agreement then?_ "Perhaps... It's overconfidence? The creature looks and acts around like royalty, so it may be just throwing its weight around."

Hoster continues eating his meal in silence. Blackfish clears up the table from the documents and chest before eating his own. Finishing his plate, Hoster stares at his hand. "You know..."

"What is it, brother?" Blackfish asks, mouth full of meat.

"When I shook that monster's hand," he speaks quietly, "it just felt like bones. There are no muscles on it, nothing. And yet," his hand curls, looking quite distraught, "it had strength. It was cold. Painful. Terrifying. How does that thing even move? What even is it?"

"Hopefully the maester coming here can answer those questions then," Blackfish adds.

"Hopefully, brother. Hopefully..."

**Riverrun - 295 AC**

The room that he's staying in is quite nice. A view of the river, a soft bed he'll never sleep on, and a shelf with a few books. Though it's quite large in size, it's quite empty as well. Of course, for Momonga, there's not much use for it here. He can just use [Gate] or [Greater Teleportation] to be back in Nazarick's many suites, which is far more lavish. Even so, he sits down on the bed and pulls out the pact that was made.

 _That was easy,_ Momonga thinks to himself. He had expected to be haggling quite a lot of jargons and details with the Lord Paramount. That's what he'd done if he was in Hoster Tully's shoes to prevent any sort of trade. _But since it was his brother's suggestions, maybe he was not so accepting of the trade sanctions._

For the deal, he needs to bring them both the fifty [Death Knights] and [Soul Eaters]. _I can't use the ones that are rebuilding the castle, but I don't really want to waste my corpse supply._ He had accumulated about a hundred human corpses and another hundred horse ones from people that attacked the castle. He can't really gather more without digging up someone's graveyard or causing mass deaths somewhere. _I guess I do have to use them up, huh._

He chuckles a bit. It's somewhat strange to him that even while thinking of such macabre subjects, he never feels any pity or sadness to the humans who died. _Is this my undead nature then? To be uncaring to those who die around me? What am I becoming?_ As quickly as the worries come up, his emotional suppression kicks in. Though he's very much annoyed by this aspect of the undead, he welcomes it for now. There's more pressing matter ahead.

_The [Message] hijack. I have to inform back to Nazarick._

"[Shadow Demon], come forth." With the command, Momonga's shadow shudders and glows with yellow eyes. As a Level 30 demon summoned by the system in Nazarick, they're both useful and replaceable as tools of espionage. "I want you to deliver a message to Albedo or Demiurge."

Fearing that he may be eavesdropped, he writes down on a piece of parchment the instructions for his subordinates.

_Someone or something in this world seems to be capable of hijacking and manipulating our [Message]. This can be heard from the static noise it makes. I do not know their full capabilities for it or what spells may cause it._

_For the time being, keep its usage to a minimum. Preferably, no important information is to be transferred through [Message]. You may use it to talk freely to one another, but be mindful of what you say. Teleportation spells and the like doesn't seem to be affected by the interference, so use it to communicate instead._

_We will need to find the source of it, ASAP. I shall go back soon._

Momonga opens a [Gate] directly to the Throne Room of Nazarick. "Transport this to one of them," he orders the shadow. It takes a few seconds before a black, clawed hand emerges from the floor and grabs the parchment. Pulling it back into the shadow, the demon wavers and quivers before shooting itself into the [Gate]. Momonga then dispels it and sighs.

_This is really troublesome..._

[Message] is the main way for people in Yggdrasil to communicate over large distances. It takes pretty much no MP to use and is an essential part of party exploration. In the real world, it's just an in-game explanation for the voice chat system. But here in the new world, it's like a cell-phone. From his limited knowledge of this world, the main ways of information to travel quickly is either by horse or raven, and even that can take a few days.

That's why Momonga clarified in the parchment that they can still use [Message] for conversations: for as much as he knows it to be a security risk for Nazarick, he doesn't want Nazarick's denizens to abandon it entirely. _God, this feels just like the old world with people tapping into your VR sets and shit. Maybe that's why I still want to use [Message]. The risk is there, but I'm still taking it._

He taps his fingers on the windowsill, looking out over the river. He can see the sun is getting near the horizon. Guards are walking about the castle walls, and in the distance, he can see several fishing boats throwing their nets. _There's still so much to learn about this world, and I doubt books would be enough. I need to actually start exploring myself, or at least send someone out in my stead. But who and to where?_

In his mind, one of the clear choices is to send an envoy to the seat of this continent: King's Landing. But knowing the king's apparent disapproval of Nazarick's existence, he has no choice but to postpone it. _I need to build up some sort of good rapport with the kingdom. Hopefully, the deal I made today can be a part of it._ Even so, he wonders on who would be best sent there. _Perhaps Demiurge or Albedo might be best. They're much more intelligent and can probably deal much better than I did regarding court matters._

And then there's the subject of the maesters. From what he can glean out of Shella Whent and Maester Vyman, the maesters learn in the place called the Citadel. That's where a maester would "earn his links" if he can recall correctly. _Maybe that's where I should go then, bringing someone who might be interested in books with me. However, that still begs the question of where it is._

 _...I should check on Shalltear. She has information for me, after all. More than what I can offer at least._ With that, he stands up and opens the door to the hall.

"Good evening, Lord Ainz," a guard stationed by his door greets him. The man keeps his visor down, obscuring his face. "Will you be going somewhere?"

"Yes, I will be heading to Shalltear's room. Will you be accompanying me then, Ser..."

"Oh, I am no Ser, Lord Ainz. My name's Geoff, a guard of Riverrun. And yes, I shall be accompanying you." He thumps his chest proudly. "I am a guard after all."

 _Huh, that's quite nice of Hoster Tully._ "Thank you. Please lead the way then, Geoff."

The two walk down the empty halls of the castle. With the sun setting, candles are being lit up by the servants, who quickly move aside upon seeing Momonga. As they go down the long spiral stairs, Momonga can hear loud chatter and laughter. The air smells of roasted meat and bread. The source becomes clear when they pass by a large set of doors. Glancing through the crack, he can see many people drinking and eating happily.

_Is that the mess hall?_

Upon arriving at their destination, no guards are present at Shalltear's door. Geoff seems distraught by this and knocks on the door. "Lady Shalltear, are you alright?"

"Just a second~" Momonga can hear some shuffling and what seems to be a spell being cast. A few seconds later, Shalltear opens the door, smiling. "Ah, Lord Ainz! Why have you come to visit me in this evening? Ah," she smiles and licks her lips, "don't tell me you came to-"

"-to talk about the meeting? Yes, I have." Before Momonga could step foot into the room, the guard's spear blocks his way. Shalltear sneers at him.

"I'm sorry to interrupt Lady Shalltear but, may I ask, have you seen the guard in front of your door? A man named Barr?"

"Keh, how would I know? Maybe he's taking a piss somewhere. Now shoo," she waves him away, "my Lord and I want to talk privately, please."

The guard looks into her room for a moment. He sees nothing out of the ordinary, but Momonga can see someone slumped against the wall. Geoff sighs, letting Momonga into the room. "Alright then. I'll be waiting outside if you need me."

"Alright, bye." Shalltear slams the door shut, shaking its stone frame. Momonga walks over to the man slumped down near the bed. From the way he's unmoving, it's clear that he's been paralysed by a spell. Shalltear also has cast [Invisibility] on the man, making him undetectable to the guard. But due to his skills, Momonga can see through it easily. However, what's odd is the dazed look on his face.

"Shalltear," he whispers, "what did you do to him?"

"Momonga-sama," she says softly, "I just did a bit of questioning, that's all."

"With what?"

"[Charm]," she replies with a smile.

 _Oh yeah, she can do that as well._ The 4th Tier Spell [Charm] will render the target friendly and vulnerable to interrogations. It's perfect for information gathering, especially against weaker enemies. _And I'm guessing these humans are weaker, huh?_ ["Shalltear, what levels did you detect the guards as? And please, reply in a whisper."] Doing this, he hopes to have the convenience of [Message] while at the very least have the actual information be untraceable.

She seems to be quite surprised by Momonga's sudden use of [Message], especially with the events earlier in the day. With that, she leans down close to him and whispers back: "The guards were around Level 13 at most. One man named Desmond was Level 18, while the heir of the castle is Level 12. No servants are more than Level 2 or 3, from what I can detect."

 _Interesting,_ Momonga ponders. _So they're about the same level as beginner NPCs back in Yggdrasil then._ ["What of the man at Level 18?"]

"He seems to be a knight or warrior of sorts," she whispers, her voice close to his head. He can feel her slightly leaning into him. "I saw him before near Harrenhal accompanying the human named Brynden Tully. He looks older than him."

 _Shit, that reminds me. I never actually did check those men's levels, huh?_ Momonga's last year of Yggdrasil has rusted him. Not many people have played the game by then, and most of his guild members have stopped coming over. At that point, with no new content being added to the game, he never really felt the need to check levels and such. _And I wasted all of that MP on fucking trees and birds._

Even so, this does confirm that people can gain levels in this new world. He doubts that the guards and knights are Level 10 at birth, so they must be able to acquire it in some way. _Would denizens of Nazarick be able to earn additional ones as well? That would be quite important to find out._ ["Anything else?"]

"Unlike Momonga-sama," her cold breath blowing against his skull, "their gods are not real."

 _OK..._ Momonga stands up, pushing away Shalltear who was leaning on him. _That's a bit uncomfortable._

Regarding the information, he wonders what she means by the gods in this world as "not real". _Does she mean it in the Yggdrasil sense? As in, there is no god who gives you classes and skills? Or is it more of an atheistic sense?_ He really wants to clarify more with her. But he has a strange feeling that if he asks Shalltear again, her opinion of him as a ruler would be diminished.

Momonga scratches his chin. _I still need more information on this world, and not just books. Where can I... Ah._

"Shalltear."

"Yes?"

"Would you like to come to dinner with me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna be slowing down my upload pace due to starting school. Don't worry, probably gonna be weekly then.


End file.
